


Mark Of The Spider-Man

by RickyPine



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Elementary (TV), Person of Interest (TV), The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Elementary s2, F/M, Gen, Mystery, Person of Interest Pre-If Then Else, Post-Amazing Spider-Man 2, Sinister Six - Freeform, The Amazing Spider-Man Spoilers, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-08 05:12:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 32,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4292001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RickyPine/pseuds/RickyPine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected visitor presents Sherlock Holmes with evidence that Oscorp is planning to pass off all responsibility for their crimes and mistakes onto the product of one such accident - Spider-Man. When the NYPD starts once again seeking to capture Spider-Man, John Reese jumps into the fray to help Sherlock, Peter Parker, and their assorted comrades in their quest to prove Spidey's innocence. </p>
<p>(Set after TASM 2, after Elementary S2, and during PoI S4 - before "If-Then-Else." All OC's are owned by me. The Amazing Spider-Man is owned by Sony. Elementary is owned by CBS. Person of Interest is owned by WB.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moose Cheese And Black Cat

While slicing strawberries, Sherlock glanced down the counter and saw Clyde approaching the food. No doubt the tortoise was tantalized by the aroma of his favorite fruit. “No,” Sherlock said, wiping his hands on his apron. “I know it’s tempting, but you’ll have to stay away.”

Clyde looked back at Sherlock blankly, then inched forward again, half a centimeter closer to the tray of strawberries and rare imported Swedish moose cheese.

“Watson!” Sherlock called. He waited ten seconds, but received no response.

“I’m afraid Joan is busy showering, brother.”

Sherlock gave an audible sniff of disgust. “Don’t you realize this is a  _surprise_  party? Or is that concept too dense for even your ridiculously thick brain to comprehend?”

“Snipe at me as much as you like,” Mycroft said in his deep, refined voice. “But whatever you need Joan for, I am sure I can do just as well as she can.”

Sherlock eyeballed Clyde again. “In that case, Mycroft, you could remove this chordate from my workspace before he contaminates the hors d’oeuvres.”

Mycroft looked at Clyde, who was himself looking between the two Holmes brothers and down at the floor. He almost could have been gauging the distance to jump, if the need should arise.

“And you can’t do it yourself because…?”

“I’m preparing appetizers,” Sherlock said, gesturing to the fruit and cheese.

“I could be doing that myself,” Mycroft said. “And you could be keeping track of your own pet.”

Sherlock shook his head. “The party is a surprise for  _you_. To have you preparing your own surprise-party meal rather defeats the purpose, hmm?”

“It’s most amusing,” Mycroft said with a soft laugh, “the way you seem to have convinced yourself that I am capable of being well and truly surprised.”

“Need I remind you about Le Milieu?”

“You need not,” Mycroft grumbled. “But I see your point. Fine. I will take the tortoise off your hands for a short while.” He plucked Clyde off the counter and gently laid him on the floor.

Clyde continued to look longingly at the counter until the doorbell rang, making him turn his head as much as he could in the direction of the sound.

“Odd,” Sherlock said, checking the wall clock. “The guests shouldn’t be arriving for another two hours.”

“Then who could it be, I wonder?” asked Mycroft. He stepped carefully over Clyde’s shell and walked towards the front door.

“Let me answer that,” Sherlock said, cutting his brother off. “You’re not even supposed to be here anyway. Just leave as soon as I’ve taken care of this business, and when you return at seven o’clock sharp, at least  _try_  to look surprised, yes?”

He opened the front door. Sure enough, as he suspected, the caller was not a party guest, but a young brunette stranger dressed all in black. In her hands, the woman clutched an old-fashioned camera, the kind that still used film.

“Can I help you?” Sherlock asked. If his voice sounded snotty and supercilious, he wasn’t sorry. He certainly was not in the mood to be bothered by a journalist, which was what this girl appeared to be.

“I sure as hell hope so,” said the girl. “Sherlock Holmes, right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Although I don’t remember ever having advertised my services.” He turned around to where Mycroft stood at the foot of the stairs, and glowered at him as if to say, “Did you call this girl here?”

The girl peered around Sherlock’s back. Upon seeing Mycroft, she gasped and nearly dropped the camera. “Oh! Is that you, Dr. Connors?”

Mycroft smiled politely. “Excuse me?” he asked, clasping his hands.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the girl, whose face began to flush in her beflusterment. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Happens all the time, my dear,” said Mycroft, ever the friendly host. “I’m Mycroft Holmes. And you are?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Why couldn’t his brother ever just keep his grubby paws to himself?

“Felicia Hardy, Oscorp,” said the girl.

So I was wrong about her, Sherlock thought as Felicia slid past him. Well, there’s a first time for everything. As Felicia shook Mycroft’s hand, the camera nestled in the crook of her arm, Sherlock frowned down at the now-empty doorstep. “No, by all means, do come in, Miss Hardy.” He closed the door, then rounded on Felicia. “All right. State your business, but make it brief. I have an expensive cheese spoiling in the kitchen.”

Mycroft took a look at the business card Felicia had just presented him. “Oscorp? Didn’t you people recently have that incident at the power plant?”

“That, and a few other fiascos,” Felicia said, laughing shyly. “And the board of directors thinks they have the perfect scapegoat so they can escape blame for their own wrongdoings.”

Sherlock blinked and raised his eyebrows. “A whistleblower. Always interesting. And who would your corporate scapegoat be?”

Felicia handed Sherlock the camera. “The answer is in here.”

Sherlock scanned the camera, every surface. Finally, a label on the back of the detachable flashbulb caught his eye. Another layer of mystery for the list. He turned to Felicia, his interest finally piqued to the point where he knew he would not want to pass this challenge up.

“Who is Peter Parker,” he asked, “and how did you come to be in possession of his property?”


	2. Does Whatever A Spider Can

“Some people just never learn,” said Spider-Man as he finally brought down the rhino-shaped mecha-suit by whacking its now-exposed engine compartment with the manhole cover he’d picked up earlier in the fight.

It had taken all of ten minutes, but he’d eventually found this weak spot. At least the police had eventually had the sense to evacuate all the nearby civilians. Spider-Man definitely had had his hands full - in more ways than one - as the Rhino kept firing his missiles at buildings and rampaging through the street.

Luckily, there was only a finite supply of missiles. And as for the rampaging...well, that was what the webline was for. Oscorp, for once, told the truth in their advertising about the bio-cable. It really was ten times stronger than steel, so it was able to restrain the Rhino’s suit. After a fashion.

“SPIDER!” cried Aleksei Sytsevich. The Russian mobster struggled to disentangle himself from the mess of webline and safety harnesses he’d gotten himself stuck in, but he was almost hopelessly trapped.

“Hold still,” said Spider-Man. “Or this might get in your eyes. You don’t want that to happen, trust me.” He pressed the button on his web-shooter and blasted Aleksei’s mouth, reducing his mingled name-calling and Russian curses to a muffled string of unintelligible mumbles.

Spider-Man then turned to the cops standing behind the line of barricades down the street. “You guys can take it from here,” he said. “Make sure this one gets back to the zoo where he belongs.”

With a quick two-fingered salute, he fired off another webline and swung up and out over the street, landing on a narrow stone ledge about fifteen stories up. He spared a brief moment to watch as the cops swarmed Aleksei and arrested him - again - then he took off swinging once more, soaring out over the streets and finally landing in that old abandoned warehouse where he first practiced his new powers.

Spider-Man once again took some time to look at something - in this case, the bright red graffiti in the shape of his chest emblem. To the right of the stylized, spray-painted spider was written the same tag that accompanied this image everywhere throughout New York: “MARK OF THE SPIDER-MAN.”

Underneath all of this was another tag, this one blue instead of red. “COME BACK SPIDEY WE NEED YOU.”

It had been quite some time since Spider-Man had been here last. Definitely since before Gwen died.

He could not even begin to describe how good it felt to become the city’s sorely-missed hero once again. This was exactly what Gwen would have wanted, of that he was sure.

Way up near the ceiling, a backpack was hanging from one of the many long chains. Spider-Man climbed another chain to untie it and take it back down to the ground. And talk about perfect timing - no sooner had he planted his rubber-soled feet on the concrete than his phone started ringing.

Spider-Man put the backpack down and extracted his phone from within the protective nest created by his street clothes. Checking the caller ID on the screen, he saw his aunt’s name and picture. He then thumbed the screen and held the phone up to his ear. “Hey, Aunt May. Want me to get some more eggs?” He chuckled under his breath at his own joke.

“Peter, are you still in Manhattan?”

“Um, no,” Spider-Man said. “I’m actually on my way back home. Why?”

“Because that camera you lost...someone found it and turned it in to the police,” said Aunt May. “Except they’re not really the police.”

“What? Wh-what do you mean?” Spider-Man’s heart was racing a mile a minute. He remembered the day Aunt May had told him about the federal agents - or men claiming to be federal agents - who came calling shortly after the disappearances and deaths of his parents. They had had evidence against Richard Parker, evidence planted by Oscorp to suggest he was guilty of corporate espionage and treason.

From what Aunt May had just said, Spider-Man began to fear the worst. Had Oscorp somehow figured out a way to unveil his secret identity? He thought he’d been so careful. He’d certainly learned his lesson from what had happened to Gwen. He could not afford to trust another loved one with his secret, for fear he would lose them too.

“They’re...what did you guys call yourselves?” Aunt May paused, and a second voice could be very faintly heard in the background. Perhaps Spider-Man could have picked out a few subtle details if not for the layer of spandex covering his ear.

Finally, Aunt May returned to the phone. “‘Consulting detectives,’ they say.”

“Do those even exist?”

“Apparently, they do.” Aunt May sighed heavily. “Peter, they think you’re in some kind of trouble. Something to do with that Spider-Guy.”

Fighting to not automatically correct his aunt (she could never get his name right), Spider-Man pursed his lips under his mask. “Why? Just ‘cause I’m the one takin’ all the photos of him?”

“They won’t tell me,” Aunt May said. “They insist on talking only to you.”

“Okay. Tell them I’ll be home in about twenty minutes.”

“All right.” Spider-Man was about to hang up when Aunt May asked, “Peter, are you on the train? I can hardly hear you.”

“I’m underground, yeah,” Spider-Man lied. “Honestly, I-I think I’m lucky to get any reception down here, you know what I mean?”

“Okay,” Aunt May said warily. “Just come home fast.”

She finally hung up, allowing Spider-Man to put his phone away and get changed. Hiding behind the wall with the spider symbol on it, he took off his mask and stuffed it into a hidden pocket on the inside of his backpack. He’d picked this backpack out specifically for this pocket, having been inspired by the very similar one in his father’s old briefcase, in which he’d found the files that led him to Oscorp - and the spiders that gave him his powers.

Many a day had passed since he’d seen that video in his father’s secret lab in the disused subway tunnel. Many a day had passed where he’d wondered, could his father have used the serum on himself? Could he have done it and somehow managed to survive the plane crash?

But like every other aspect of his parents’ mystery he’d encountered so far, Peter Parker was sure it would only reveal itself on its own time.

Layering his regular clothes over his spandex suit - it would be much less time-consuming than trying to remove the clingy material, even though it would leave him with skintight man-made fabrics riding up in the crotch something terrible - Peter took his time before setting off. Realistically speaking, he could probably have made his way home from the warehouse in only fifteen minutes. Maybe less. But he wanted a little more time to think.

Of course, most of that thinking time was spent going over the same old things that had cropped up in his head the moment Aunt May had called him.

As he approached his house, Peter considered going upstairs briefly to leave his mask in his closet. Just in case these “consulting detectives” might have wanted to search his backpack. Hell, he could have probably taken off the suit and left it behind in his closet as well.

But what if they wanted to search his room? What sort of search powers would these consulting detectives have, if any?

So, in the end, Peter simply decided to carry his stuff in through the front door and hope nobody would start getting nosy.

“Hey, Aunt May,” Peter called as he came into the house. “What’s goin’ on?”

Aunt May emerged from the living room and gestured into the room. “These are those detectives I told you about, Peter,” she said. “Well, two of them, anyway. This is Sherlock Holmes” - a skinny man with extremely short hair looked up, nodded briefly, then started looking around the room - “and Joan Watson.” An Asian woman stood up to shake Peter’s hand. “And the other two are-”

“Mycroft Holmes,” said a tall British man dressed all in black, who was sitting between Sherlock and Joan.

Peter let out a short laugh as he shook Mycroft’s hand. “You look just like...like someone I knew.”

“Dr. Curtis Connors, yes?” Mycroft asked.

“How’d you guess?”

“I’m told the resemblance is rather uncanny,” Mycroft said, “but there exist a few major points of difference between the two of us. For instance, the fact that I still have both of my arms.” He laughed harshly before continuing. “And, for another, the fact that I did not attempt to release toxins into the air over this city.”

“True.”

The fourth visitor, a second dark-haired woman (this one white, not Asian), stood up and held out Peter’s lost camera. “I believe this is yours.”

“You know this woman?” Aunt May asked.

“Not really,” Peter said. “I’ve just met her a couple of times.”

“Mrs. Parker, could we please have the room to ourselves?” asked Joan. “I’m sorry, but this is a private matter.”

“And a rather urgent one,” remarked Sherlock. Like Mycroft (Peter wondered if these two were related, because despite sharing the same last name, they bore very little resemblance to each other), Sherlock’s accent was clearly British, but his voice was somewhat nasal, not as deep as Mycroft’s.

“Uh...I...are you sure…?”

“Your son’s not a minor, is he?” Mycroft asked. “If that’s the case, Mrs. Parker, you don’t need to stay.”

Peter and Aunt May both began explaining, simultaneously, that they were not, in fact, mother and son. Their voices overlapped each other, but not enough to prevent the consulting detectives and their small entourage from getting the point.

“Oh,” Mycroft said. “My apologies. I simply assumed...normally, I would be able to do a background check, but I had neither the time nor resources at hand today.”

“I understand,” Aunt May said. “But I would still feel more comfortable-”

“Aunt May, relax,” Peter said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “I can handle this. And don’t you need to go to work anyway?”

Aunt May checked her watch. “Oh my God, you’re right. I’m sorry. I really do have to go. Goodbye, everyone.”

“Goodbye, Mrs. Parker,” said Joan.

“Goodbye,” said the brunette, whose name Peter could not quite remember - he hadn’t seen her since he’d last been to see Harry at Oscorp. Mycroft said goodbye as well, but Sherlock remained silent, continuing to observe the room at large.

“Bye, Aunt May,” Peter said, kissing her cheek.

“Be careful,” Aunt May whispered before leaving the room to get dressed for work.

Peter turned back to the visitors. “Okay. What’s going on? Where’d you find my camera?” He directed this question at the brunette.

“In my boss’s office,” the brunette said.

“But I thought your boss-”

“Not Harry Osborn,” the brunette said, waving her hand as she cut Peter off. “Good memory, though. Do you remember my name?”

Peter shook his head. “Should I?”

“Probably not,” the brunette admitted. “I’m Felicia Hardy. And you’re right, Harry Osborn is still locked up at Ravencroft.”

“Ravencroft?” inquired Sherlock, turning his head towards Felicia.

“Officially, it’s a mental hospital,” Felicia said, “but unofficially, it’s a secret Oscorp facility.”

“I see.” Sherlock looked away from Felicia, then stood up and started pacing the room.

“I’m talking about my current boss, Donald Menken,” Felicia continued. “He had that camera hidden in a safe in his office - until I got in and stole it from him.”

Peter took the camera back from Felicia at last. Noting that it felt a bit lighter than usual, he looked over its outer surface. No signs of damage of any kind, and the label bearing his name was still intact. “So let me get this straight,” he said, using his free hand to wave his finger back and forth as he tried to get a handle on things. “Someone at Oscorp stole my camera, gave it to the boss - and you stole it back from him.”

“Correct,” Felicia said. “But I don’t think I was able to get to it fast enough. Open it up.”

Peter opened the back of his camera and confirmed his suspicions. There was no film inside. “So where’s the film?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Felicia said. “But wherever it is, Menken or whoever else is working with him is probably screwing around with it. You use these cameras to get pictures of Spider-Man for the paper, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Oscorp’s been tryin’ to take down Spider-Man for a while,” Felicia said. “And I believe they’re gonna use your photos against him somehow.”

Peter rubbed his neck, then started waving his free hand wildly as he spoke again. “What? But...but how? They don’t - I can’t - how can they do anything with my pictures? All I ever get is Spider-Man swinging.”

“Ms. Watson, could you show him the other item I liberated from Menken’s safe?”

Watson pulled a piece of paper out of her handbag. It was a short handwritten note, reading: “ _M. - I need the photos by Tuesday the 8th. Otherwise, the next phase will be delayed, and we’ll have broken S. out for nothing. -F._ ”

“‘M,’ obviously, is Menken,” Felicia said. “I have no idea where to begin looking for F, whoever he might be, but S is-”

“Aleksei Sytsevich,” Sherlock interrupted. “The Russian mobster. I understand Spider-Man has faced him before?”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “Wait, are you saying...no, it can’t be.”

But in the back of his mind, Peter was starting to put two and two together. He thought back to today’s encounter with Aleksei in the Rhino suit. And if he concentrated hard enough on his mental picture, he could just barely, not quite completely, see it - the distinctive company logo stamped on the steel surface of the Rhino.

“That guy in the Rhino suit,” Peter whispered. “That was Oscorp, too?”

“Something I’m sure they’re already working hard to cover up,” Felicia said. “The point is, Spider-Man is in danger. And we think you might know how and where to find him, so we can warn him.”

Peter laughed nervously. “Why does everyone think I know the guy?”

“But you do know him,” Sherlock said. “Your blinking rate has increased twofold since Miss Hardy last spoke. You’re getting nervous, Mr. Parker. Hmm?”

“I don’t...I don’t know him!” Peter really didn’t mean to shout, but Sherlock was right. He was getting very nervous.

“Well, it’s a simple matter, Mr. Parker,” Sherlock said. “Just take us to Spider-Man. What’s making you so scared?”

Peter swallowed. These people were really starting to get to him.

“Look,” he said finally. “I do know where to find Spider-Man. But the thing is, he’s sworn me to secrecy. And he’s told me that if I break his trust, he’ll go and - he’ll go and hide somewhere else. Somewhere even harder to find. And he w-won’t let me take his pictures anymore.”

“He lets you take his pictures?” Mycroft asked.

“I need the money, and he needs the good publicity,” Peter said. “Two-way street.”

Watson stepped in front of the two Holmeses and Felicia. “Look, Peter,” she said, holding up a placating hand. “Don’t think of it as a betrayal of Spider-Man’s confidence. Think of it as doing him a favor. You’ll be helping him learn about a new threat, and he’ll probably understand why you had to bring us to him.”

Peter closed his camera and stowed it away in his backpack. As he considered Watson’s words, he thought about what he should do. If Oscorp really wanted to do something against Spider-Man, he would need to make sure these people brought that to the hero’s attention.

At the same time, though, these people seemed to be inconveniently sharp, especially compared to Harry Osborn. He wasn’t sure he could simply promise to have Spider-Man meet them, and then have him surprise-appear in their living room. Would they try to have him take them to Spider-Man directly, keeping an eye on him the whole time?

 _Okay_ , Peter thought.  _Calm down, Peter. This is no time to get paranoid._

“How’s this?” Peter said. “I’ll find him, and I’ll give him your...wherever you wanna meet, and then he can show up there.”

“How would that work, exactly?” Mycroft asked.

“You guys decide on a place and time,” Peter said. “Then leave me one of your numbers. I’ll go and talk to Spider-Man tonight, and if he agrees, I’ll text you, or call you, and let you know so you can expect him.”

“Why would you be the one calling us?” Watson asked.

Peter’s mouth moved wordlessly for a few seconds before he came up with a decent answer. “Spider-Man’s, uh, off the grid. No phone, no Facebook, no nothing. Heh, I-I don’t even think he takes snail mail, you know?”

“Well, that makes sense,” Sherlock said. “A vigilante like that could do with a certain level of paranoid schizophrenia.”

“Sherlock!” Watson hissed.

“What? I’m sure we’re all thinking it. Spider-Man must have some kind of psychological disorder, the things he does.”

Peter laughed, but nobody else did. “I’m sorry,” he said as everyone’s heads turned to him. “He’s just...he doesn’t sound so weird like that. I-I-I always thought he was just a normal guy.”

“If you say so, Mr. Parker. Good day.” Sherlock was the first one out the door, and once again, he was the only one not polite enough to shake hands.

As soon as he was alone, Peter retreated to his bedroom and removed his clothes, then took off the upper half of his Spidey-suit.  _Great. My first day back on the job, and already I’m in seriously deep shit. Here we go again, huh?_

He stripped off the legs of the suit, then put his regular clothes back on. Then he picked up the suit and carried it out the door, stopping only to look at the photo of himself and Gwen on the wall behind his desk.

“Love you lots,” he whispered out loud, kissing the tip of his index finger and touching Gwen’s beaming face. “Miss you loads.”

Blinking back tears, Peter took the suit downstairs and took advantage of the absence of the usual laundry sheriff, sticking it in the wash. The suit had seriously begun to reek of stress-sweat, especially after his meeting with Sherlock, Watson, et al.

While Felicia had been very vague in describing what she knew of Oscorp’s plans, Peter knew instinctively that it was going to be much worse than any of them suspected.


	3. Windowsill

The day after the meeting with Peter Parker, he messaged Joan and told her that Spider-Man had agreed to see her and Sherlock. Joan had consulted with Sherlock, Mycroft, and Felicia, and together they agreed to have the spandex-suited person come to the brownstone the next day - Saturday - at five in the afternoon.

Five o’clock came and went, and no Spider-Man. Sherlock sighed heavily as he checked his watch. He hadn’t expected the superhero to be all that punctual, though. From what he knew (he’d done some research over the last couple of days), Spider-Man only ever seemed to show up at the last minute whenever he was needed. Like when that man in the rhinoceros-shaped mechanical suit had gone on his rampage the other day - had it been the same day as when this whole situation had begun?

Sherlock paced the room for a few more minutes, then stopped as he spotted a strange figure silhouetted in the window. No details could be made out, not with the glare of the sun behind it, but the figure appeared to be a human, hanging upside down from a narrow thread.

“Ah, our guest has arrived at last,” Sherlock muttered to nobody in particular. “Should I let him in through the window, or can he use the front door like a normal human?”

“I think we all know he’s far from a normal human,” Felicia said. Before Sherlock could stop her, she crossed the living room and opened the window herself. Spider-Man swung in, repositioning himself right side up before finally letting go of his webline and planting his feet firmly on the floor.

“Thank you for coming, Spider-Man,” Mycroft said, holding out his hand.

Spider-Man tilted his head. Sherlock suspected that he was probably making a weird face, but it could not be seen under the red mask. “Do I know you?”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to tilt his own head. Muffled Spider-Man’s voice might have been, but it still sounded familiar. Very familiar.

“Don’t tell me,” Mycroft said with a sigh. “You think I look like Dr. Curtis Connors, don’t you?”

“Do you get that a lot?” asked Spider-Man.

“Increasingly, lately,” Mycroft said wryly, shaking Spider-Man’s hand.

“Can’t imagine why.” Spider-Man laughed harshly. “You don’t have a missing arm.”

“Ah, of course,” Mycroft said, making a big show of patting his arm to see if it was still attached to his body. “My name is Mycroft Holmes, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Mycroft Holmes,” Spider-Man said. “So if not this guy, then which one of you works for Oscorp again?”

“I do,” Felicia said, stepping up to Spider-Man. “And how did you know-”

“My publicist told me,” Spider-Man said glibly.

“Your, um, ‘publicist’ being Peter Parker?” Joan asked as Spider-Man turned to her.

“Yeah,” Spider-Man said, shaking her hand. “Real nice guy. He really gets me, you know? And unlike half the world, he also really gets the concept of the mask.” He waved his hand around his head, adding a small laugh.

Sherlock tilted his head and looked more closely at Spider-Man. Underneath the rubber suit, he was a fairly slender individual. Lots of lean muscle there. He didn’t look as if he were capable of all the feats of strength documented to him. In fact, he almost looked like a strong enough breeze could blow him over.

“So, what’s up?” Spider-Man asked as soon as all the introductions were made - even Sherlock’s. “Parker said somethin’ about Oscorp tryin’ to get me in trouble? Yeah, where have I heard that before?” He laughed, then stopped short as he noticed Felicia all over again. “Whoops. Sorry about that.”

“It’s all right,” Felicia said. “I’m not gonna take offense to things other people do.”

“Cool,” Spider-Man said. “So what are they gonna try to do to me now? Please tell me they got somethin’ better in mind than that dumb Russian Rhino guy.”

Felicia frowned deeply. “We think Rhino was just the beginning of Oscorp’s plans.”

“I figured,” Spider-Man said. “‘Cause let me tell you, I’ve faced worse from those guys. Way worse, believe me.”

Sherlock crossed his arms and paced around, never once taking his eyes off the superhero sitting in his armchair. Peter Parker had said at one point the other day how “normal” Spider-Man was, and now Sherlock could see Mr. Parker’s point. Spider-Man was a very friendly character, and he had a certain sense of humor. Strange, perhaps, and very definitely snarky.

But still, Sherlock could not shake the feeling that he knew Spider-Man from somewhere.

“What did Peter Parker tell you?” Mycroft asked.

“Just somethin’ about Oscorp stealin’ his camera and all his photos of me,” Spider-Man said. “He said you guys would know more about what was goin’ on.”

Joan stepped in front of Mycroft. “We actually don’t know much,” she said. “Just what Felicia here was able to grab from Oscorp.”

“Read this,” Felicia said, handing Menken’s letter to Spider-Man. “Does any of it make sense to you?”

Spider-Man held the letter up close to his face. Sherlock wondered how badly the opaque white lenses - which had a certain honeycomb pattern inside them, thereby adding a bug-like compound-eyes effect - interfered with his vision.

Finally, Spider-Man put the note down. “Um, no. I don’t think I can help you with this. I mean, it’s all cryptic. Nothing but initials. And there’s probably a million people with these initials - ‘M,’ ‘S,’ ‘F.’” He paused. “Wait a minute - ‘S.’ What was the Russian’s name again? Sergeyevich? Something like that, am I right?”

“Sytsevitch,” Mycroft supplied. “Aleksei Sytsevitch.”

“Close enough,” Spider-Man laughed. “Either way, he’s pretty obviously got something to do with this.”

Sherlock nodded. “Obviously. Now, are you sure you have no idea what this could all be about?”

“No idea,” said Spider-Man.

“Absolutely sure?” Sherlock paused for effect. “Mr. Parker?”

Spider-Man stiffened. Sherlock held back a self-satisfied smile. As sure as he was that his guess was right, he could not tell definitively. Not with Spider-Man’s face covered. But his body language helped tell the real story.

In any case, Spider-Man then relaxed and said, “I’m not Peter Parker.”

“If I were you, I would spare me the lies,” Sherlock said. “You don’t have to worry, Mr. Parker. We’re not going to turn you in to the police.”

Behind Spider-Man’s back, Joan mouthed, “ _What?_ ”

Ignoring her, Sherlock pressed on. “We’re not here to get you in trouble. We’re here to get you out of it. But in order to do that, you’ll need to be completely honest with us, hmm?”

“I’d listen to my brother,” Mycroft said. “It’s nearly impossible to slip any kind of lie past him.”

Spider-Man said nothing. He simply stared at Sherlock, the mask making him completely impassive.

“You’re not gonna talk?” Sherlock asked. “In that case, what are you still doing here?”

Joan glared at Sherlock before coming around the chair so she could face Spider-Man herself. “Never mind the issue of your identity,” she said quickly, waving madly at Sherlock when he opened his mouth to protest. “Let’s get back to the Oscorp thing. Felicia, you said you found the camera and the letter in Donald Menken’s office, right?”

“That’s right,” Felicia said with a nod.

“Do you think you can get in there again without Menken spotting you?” Mycroft asked.

Felicia nodded again. “Most likely. And I could have Spider-Man come with me, see if he can help.” She paused. “Of course, I think it would actually be better if he went in incognito.”

“By ‘incognito,’” Spider-Man said, holding up his hands, “I assume that means I’m gonna show up in costume?”

Felicia looked at the others, then shook her head. “That disguise of yours is pretty effective, but it’s also too conspicuous. Oscorp would be less likely to get suspicious of a regular guy walking through the corridors than of a masked vigilante.”

“Especially a ‘guy’” - Sherlock punctuated his rare use of slang with equally-colloquial air quotes - “as regular as you, Mr. Parker.”

“Would you not do that, please?” Joan grumbled. “Look, Spider-Man, we understand you feel the need to not reveal your identity, but if it’ll help us with our investigation-”

Spider-Man practically jumped into a standing position. “I don’t think you do.”

“You don’t think we do what?” Joan asked.

“Understand,” Spider-Man said. His voice had gotten deeper, and it seemed - especially to Sherlock - that he was trying very hard not to start yelling. “I can’t tell people who I am. There are only four people who’ve ever known. Two are locked up...and the other two are dead and…” He swallowed, clenching his fists for a second. “Dead and buried.”

“Even Peter Parker doesn’t know who you are?” Joan asked.

Sherlock heaved a huge sigh. “Oh, Watson, why do you insist on playing along? I assume that’s what you are doing, anyway. Unlike my brother, I would never expect you to exhibit willful blindness.”

Joan grabbed Sherlock’s shirtsleeve and dragged him into the kitchen so they could talk privately. “All right, Sherlock, what’s gotten into you?”

“It’s most annoying that this young man thinks he can play games with me,” Sherlock hissed, jerking his thumb somewhere behind him.

“Who, Peter Parker?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “So you did recognize him after all.”

“Only after you kept pointing it out,” Joan said.

“But you at least had a sneaking suspicion at first, yes?”

“I did,” Joan admitted. “But Sherlock, he seems pretty touchy about all this. I’m trying not to drive him away.”

Sherlock sighed. “‘Drive him away.’”

“Let’s try to think of it like this,” Joan said. “He’s like another addict, and he needs our help, even if he won’t take it.”

“Addicted to what? Secrets and lies?”

The phone rang, preventing Joan from having to answer. Sherlock grabbed the handset first and, after reading the caller ID, said, “Hello, Captain.”

“Holmes,” said Captain Gregson. “Whatever happened to that surprise party you were plannin’ for your brother?”

“Fate intervened,” Sherlock said succinctly. “What is it, Captain? Watson and I are rather busy at the moment.”

Gregson cleared his throat. “We got a new case. It’s a pretty interesting one, too. Something about a ‘speckled band,’ whatever that means.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock said. “Thanks, but no thanks. I can do you one better. Watson and I are right now trying to help Spider-Man.”

Gregson laughed uproariously, forcing Sherlock to pull the handset away from his ear for a few seconds. “Spider-Man? Since when does he come to us for help?”

“He came to me, Captain,” Sherlock said. “And only because a concerned third party tipped us off to a new threat against him.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft called from the living room. “Joan!”

“And now it seems my brother has important information for us,” Sherlock said. “If you would like to help us out, Captain, feel free to drop by the brownstone. And tell Detective Bell that I’d like to extend him the same invitation.”

Sherlock hung up and followed Joan to the living room. “What’s going on, Mycroft?” she asked.

“Tell them what you just told us, Spider-Man,” Felicia said.

Spider-Man looked up at Sherlock and Joan. “I’ll do it. I’ll help you guys. ‘Cause I need to do what I can to make sure they can’t hurt me anymore. Or anyone else in my life. But you have to promise you’ll never tell anyone.”

“Of course,” Joan said.

“Yes, we promise,” Sherlock said, waving his hands in a circle. He was getting very impatient.

Spider-Man’s shoulders slumped a bit, then he raised his hands to his head and slowly, almost dramatically, peeled off his mask. As Sherlock and Joan had both come to suspect, underneath was a face they’d seen before. A youthful face, with a slight case of five o’clock shadow, large brown eyes, and messy brown hair.

Peter Parker raised his prominent eyebrows and said, “Surprised?”

Sherlock turned to Mycroft. “How were you able to convince him?”

“Ask Felicia,” Mycroft said. “She whispered the magic words in his ear.”

Peter pulled his mask back on. “Okay, enough gawking, guys. Nothing to see. Let’s just get down to business.”


	4. People Turn The TV On, Throw It Out The Window

Two days later, Peter followed Felicia up to the front door of the Oscorp tower. He couldn’t help but feel a great deal of foreboding. After all, he was about to step into the lion’s den. And who knew how far Felicia’s protection, if any, could extend? Especially if she was only an executive secretary or whatever she was.

“Relax, Spider-Man,” Felicia hissed at Peter as he continued to fidget nervously while standing behind her. “You’re gonna get us both caught.” She tapped the screen of her tablet with a pen, her hands shaking slightly.

“I don’t see you worryin’ about that,” Peter whispered back. “Callin’ me ‘Spider-Man’ in front of everyone.”

“First off, it’s a compliment,” Felicia said. “And second, have you seen all the other suits in this line? They’re ridiculously self-absorbed businesspeople. They don’t have the time or energy to pay attention to other people’s conversations.” She snorted under her breath. “Hell, they probably all have the money to afford butlers who can pay attention for them.”

“Ehh, you’re probably right,” Peter said, waving his hand lazily.

“You could have done with wearin’ glasses or something, though,” Felicia said. “Anything to make you look a little weaker. Trust me, you don’t want them suspecting anything about you.”

Peter shook his head. “The only glasses I have, I wore them last time I was here.”

“Anything to give the security cameras’ onboard facial recognition software a hard time, am I right?”

“They have facial recognition software?”

“Software for pretty much anything you can train a machine to recognize,” Felicia said, counting them off on her fingers. “Not just facial, but also gait recognition. Oh, and heat signatures, metal detectors-”

“ _All right, we get it_ _,_ ” Sherlock’s voice barked over the well-hidden earpieces worn by both Felicia and Peter. These had been procured by Mycroft through some MI6 contact or other stationed underground in Manhattan. “ _Stick to the plan._ ”

“Of course,” Felicia said sweetly, tapping her screen one last time and shutting her tablet off for a moment as she came up to the metal detector. She held her badge up to the security guard. “This is one of the new interns in Mr. Menken’s office,” she said, jerking her thumb at Peter. “He’s pretty much fresh off the streets, which is why he’s so painfully underdressed.”

Peter glared at her for a split second. He could almost see Sherlock rolling his eyes as he heard him sigh in exasperation over his earpiece.

“Anything to declare, Miss Hardy?” the guard asked.

“Of course.” Felicia pulled out the weapon Sherlock had issued her, just in case. A collapsible baton. He and Joan both swore by it, claiming it was much more useful than carrying around a big police-style nightstick. More portable, too. Unfortunately, being made of metal, the baton could not go through the detector, and would have to be checked in at the entrance.

But Felicia had brought along something to ensure that they wouldn’t have to leave the baton behind forever. Unfortunately, this was made of metal as well, and as soon as it passed through the detector, the machine sounded the alarm.

Peter, however, was quick to indicate to the security guard the thin metal band that covered his teeth. Having been inspired by the  _Artemis Fowl_  books he’d read as a child, Peter had suggested this idea to fool the security team into inadvertently allowing him to carry his web-shooters into the building. The guard was, thankfully, dumb enough to buy Peter’s lie about the retainer being the only thing setting off the alarm.

It helped, of course, that within seconds of Peter passing through the metal detector, the security guard’s computer went on the fritz, courtesy of Felicia’s hacker contact. Frazzled beyond belief, the guard impatiently waved in the direction of the nearby receptionist, who started dialing a number on her phone - probably tech support.

Peter took his chance to slip past the highly-distracted guard. Then he clipped one of his web-shooters onto the cuff of his jacket and used it to snag back Felicia’s borrowed baton.

“Thanks,” Felicia said with a smile. She took the baton back and slipped it into her bag, then pressed her earpiece and said, “We’re in. Thank you, Miss Groves.”

“ _You’re welcome,_ ” said a soft female voice. “ _We still haven’t discussed the matter of my payment, though._ ”

“ _Who is this?_ ” Sherlock hissed. “ _Miss Hardy, I thought this was a secure channel_.”

“ _It is_ _,_ ” said Miss Groves.

Peter raised his eyebrows and asked, “I’m with Sherlock on this one. Who are you?”

“ _Your worst nightmare if you get on my bad side,_ ” Miss Groves said. Despite her cheerful tone, Peter got chills hearing those words. “ _You’ve seen what I can do, and that’s just the tip of the metaphorical iceberg. Now, Felicia, the payment?_ ”

“Hold on a sec…” Felicia paused while she and Peter got into the elevator, and she told the computer what floor she wanted to go to. Since it was a restricted floor, she held up her keycard so the system could approve her. “And you’re gonna need to wipe that from the security logs too, Sam,” Felicia added. “Please.”

“ _That wasn’t included in the deal,_ ” said Miss Sam Groves. “A _nd since when are you on a first-name basis with me?_ ”

“You started it.”

“ _Such a juvenile turn of phrase there, Felicia. Now, the deal…?_ ”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. Right. Well, I got a dashing young man workin’ with me right now, and from what I understand, he’s single and lonely and-”

“Whoa, Felicia, what the hell?” Peter stared at her incredulously. “I didn’t...I didn’t sign up for Hacks and Adventures here. Did I?”

“You sorta did, actually. But not in the way you’re talkin’ about. And speaking of talking, who says I was talkin’ about you, sweet cheeks?” Felicia asked, reaching out to pinch Peter’s cheeks.

Peter swatted Felicia’s hands away. “What…?”

“ _Which dashing young man are you talking about, then?_ ” asked Sam.

“The British one,” said Felicia. “You’d love him, Sam. He’s a lot like you. Quite a high-functioning sociopath.”

“ _I resent that epithet,_ ” Sherlock burst out. “ _Mycroft, you’re never to talk to our clients again. You’ll give them ideas._ ”

As the two Holmes brothers began arguing on their end, Peter turned to Felicia and asked, “Where did you get this lady again?”

“I met her online, of course,” Felicia laughed. “We’re in a fan club. ‘Hot Vigilantes of New York.’”

“ _She’s a seriously misguided soul who believes the hottest vigilante is Spider-Man_ ,” Sam said. “ _I say that while he is pretty damn hot, I have to throw my support in wholeheartedly for the Man in the Suit._ ”

Peter didn’t think he’d ever blushed this much before. Here he was, in a confined space with two older women (granted, one wasn’t actually in the elevator, but still) both telling him to his face they were attracted to him. Most human males in their late teens would love this kind of attention. But this was just one of the many ways Peter was not like most human males in their late teens.

“And you say you’ve actually met the Man in the Suit?” Felicia asked.

“ _Oh yes,_ ” Sam said. “ _For those of you not in the know, the Man in the Suit is a well-dressed man who always goes after bad guys and shoots them in the kneecaps._ ” She allowed herself a brief giggle. “ _A gross oversimplification, but you get the picture. Sadly, Spider-Man gets all the glory, mostly because Suit’s been off the radar lately, for...personal reasons. But hey, if you’re lucky, you might get to meet him soon._ ”

“What’s that supposed to-” Peter began.

“ _Dinner with your Brit friend, yes?_ ” asked Sam.

“Of course,” said Felicia.

Sam clicked her tongue. “ _Thank you very much. Nice doing business with you, ‘BlackCat94_ _.’_ ”

“Same to you, ‘Root_of_the_Machine,’” Felicia said, pressing her earpiece. Now all she and Peter could hear on the line was the faint sounds of Sherlock and Mycroft continuing to argue.

“You didn’t tell her who I was, did you?” Peter asked Felicia pointedly.

“Of course not,” Felicia said, shaking her head for emphasis. “You’re mine, anyway,” she added with a lascivious leer.

Peter turned away from Felicia. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Am I makin’ you uncomfortable?”

“Oh, gee, you think?” Peter groused. “You’ve been doin’ this since yesterday, Felicia. Why?”

Now it was Felicia’s turn to blush. Peter was right - ever since yesterday, she’d been acting flirty with him, with gradually decreasing levels of subtlety as time went on. “Can’t you guess?” she asked, averting her eyes.

Peter probably could guess, but he wasn’t in the mood to discuss a woman’s feelings. There were more important things to do at the moment.

“ _She’s simply fangirling over you, Peter,_ ” Sherlock said out of the blue. “ _Or, more accurately, over Spider-Man.”_

The elevator doors finally opened - Peter suspected that Sam had somehow hacked it so that the ride would take much longer than it was supposed to. “We’ll talk about this later,” he said. “Come on, let’s go.”

Felicia followed Peter out the door, then stepped ahead of him so she could lead the way to Menken’s office. There was a receptionist’s desk, but it stood empty. “That’s where I work,” Felicia explained, swiping her keypad on the door to the office proper.

As Peter stepped inside, he stopped to look around. This was the same office that belonged to Harry Osborn during his brief time as head of the company. He’d been in there a couple of times, including the day when Harry told him he was dying and needed Spider-Man’s - his - blood for the cure. Look at all the good that did him, Peter thought sourly.

“All right, you know this place better than I do,” Peter said. “Where do we start?”

“Um...maybe on his desk.” Felicia crossed over to the desk and started sorting through stacks of files.

“I sorta remember this desk bein’ a big touch-screen,” Peter said.

Felicia shook her head. “Harry and Electro destroyed it when they broke in that night. They’re still tryin’ to make the replacement.” She lifted up stack after stack before finally finding what she was looking for. “The safe key.”

“Someone’s got crap security,” Peter laughed.

“I bet Menken figured nobody would ever get up here,” Felicia laughed back. “Not without insider help.” She crossed the room. “Now, let’s see what else we can find in here…”

She opened the safe. Peter waited with bated breath, but he was sorely disappointed. “Empty,” he said. “Of course.”

“Bet you kids weren’t counting on breaking and entering for nothing, were you?”

Peter and Felicia froze as the gravelly male voice rang out behind them, a sort of Batman-like whisper-shout.

“Turn around,” the man said. “Hands up.”

They obeyed, finally getting a look at the man. As Peter suspected, he was not Mr. Menken. Far from it. This man was tall, well-built...and very well-dressed. And holding a gun on them with one hand while using his other to pull open his jacket, revealing an NYPD badge clipped to his belt.

“Detective John Riley,” the man said.

“ _What’s happening?_ ” Sherlock asked. “ _Miss Hardy, Mr. Parker, talk to me._ ”

“ _Tsk, tsk, John,_ ” said Sam, her voice cutting back into the earpieces. “ _These people are friends. At least give them your real name._ ”

“Friends, huh?” Riley repeated. “Prove it, then.”

“ _Peter, do us all a favor and take off your shirt,_ ” said Sam.

Peter slapped his hand to his forehead. “Um, I can still do a facepalm, right?” he asked.

“I didn’t shoot you in the leg, did I?” Riley asked. “And yes, Root, I’ll give them my real name. John Reese. I’m not a detective, for which you kids should be thankful.”

“Why?”

“Take off your shirt and show us all why,” said Reese.

Peter rolled his eyes. “I’ll pretend there’s nothing disturbing about what you said before, Sam,” he grumbled, removing his jacket and pulling his shirt over his head. He’d had plenty of practice shedding his outer layers of clothing in record time before, and today was no exception. Soon, Peter stood before Felicia and Reese wearing his jeans, his sneakers - and the top half of his Spider-Man uniform.

“Happy now?” he asked pointedly, putting his shirt and jacket back on.

“Well, now we’re going to need to move to a more secure channel,” Reese said. “Root, if you please…?”

“ _Of course.”_

“ _No, what’s happen-_ ” Sherlock began, but he was abruptly - and freakishly - cut off. Peter found the effect more than a bit unnerving.

“Okay, we need to get you kids out of here before the real cops show up,” Reese said with some disdain. “Get behind me.”

As soon as Peter and Felicia did so, Reese trained his gun on the panoramic window. “You do know that’s bulletproof, right?” Felicia asked.

Reese ignored her, firing no less than three bullets through the glass, creating a massive hole. “High-explosive rounds,” he said. “I liberated some from a recent gun-smuggling operation.”

“Good to know,” Peter said, pointing at the hole. “And that’s for…?”

“For this,” Reese said, pointing to a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. “A little help here, Mr. Parker?”

“How do you know my...never mind.” Peter shook his head, deciding that as long as this whole mission was being hijacked, he might as well go with it. Feeling like his life had caught a killer computer virus, Peter helped Mr. Reese dismount the TV (Reese had a small set of tools hidden in his jacket), and together they carried it to the window before dropping it through the hole.

Seconds later, the TV smashed on the sidewalk, 108 stories below.

“Miss Hardy, I trust you know the secret way out?” Reese asked.

“Of course,” Felicia said. “This way.” She led the two men out of the office and into a hidden panel behind the reception desk. “This is how Electro and Harry got into the office that day,” she said. “And now it’s gonna be our escape route.”

“Gotta love an inside man,” Reese quipped. “Or woman.”

They rode the elevator down. But just when they hit the ground floor, Sam burst in again. “ _Change of plans,_ ” she said. “ _There’s a private security team waiting on the ground. I’ll have to take you into the basement. You can escape through the tunnels._ ”

“Tunnels?” Felicia asked. “I didn’t know there were tunnels.”

“It’s New York,” said Reese. “There’s always tunnels.”

The door opened, releasing the trio into a dark, dimly lit hallway. “ _Go a hundred feet up, then hang a right,_ ” Sam said. “ _That’ll get you into the tunnel._ ”

They followed Sam’s orders, passing by several Plexiglas doors. Behind these were all sorts of weird machinery, mostly of the battle-armor variety. One had huge wings attached to it, while another included four fearsome tentacle-like appendages waving around slowly, menacingly.

The door they wanted was marked “Rhino,” but the room behind it was empty. And Peter knew why - its contents had been used - and damaged - in battle less than a week ago.

“ _Come on, Mr. Parker_ _,_ ” Sam urged him. “ _I’m not Chloe O’Brian. I can’t keep directing you forever._ ”

Peter swallowed his nerves and followed Reese and Felicia into the Rhino room. Felicia opened a door at the back, one large enough for the Rhino to have passed through. Then the three of them sprinted into the dark tunnel beyond.


	5. Knock Knock - Man In A Suit

“Mr. Finch, I’ll need an exit ASAP,” said Reese as the party continued to charge down the tunnel.

“ _Just a second,_ ” said Finch in his reedy, slightly robotic voice. “ _Oh dear. There’s a battalion of security guards about to enter the tunnel at the other end._ ”

Reese peered all the way down to the end of the tunnel, some five hundred feet away. “I don’t see anything. Are they still outside?”

“ _For now, yes,_ ” said Finch.

Root made a clucking noise. “ _Tsk, tsk. Harold, can you please get off the line? Too many cooks in the kitchen, you know._ ”

“ _Ms. Groves._ ” Finch’s voice was as deliberately flat as always when he spoke to his black-hat counterpart. “ _You have no government agencies to bring down today?”_

 _“I had to move the corporate crime up my calendar,_ ” said Root sweetly. “ _I’m actually getting paid for this, believe it or not. Maybe that’s why She clued me in to our little vigilante’s current plight._ ”

Reese spared a second to glance at the young superhero behind him. Peter’s response, a “who, me?” sort of gesture, would have made Reese break into laughter if he and the others weren’t busy running for their lives.

“ _What vigilante?_ ” Finch asked.

“ _Aww, She didn’t tell you?_ ”

“Who’s ‘She?’” asked Peter and Felicia simultaneously, prompting the two of them to stop long enough to exchange shocked, embarrassed glanced.

Reese started - he’d momentarily forgotten that Root was in the civilians’ ears too. “I need an exit,” he said in a singsong voice, hoping to get the two hackers off their war of words and back on track.

“ _Harold, I do believe Sameen needs your help with that serpentine situation of hers,_ ” Root said before Finch could speak up again. “ _And don’t give me the usual crap about not being a biologist. Your scientific expertise is light-years ahead of anyone else’s here. Except maybe Mr. Parker’s - or should I say, Spider-Man’s?”_

 _“Ms. Groves, are you saying-_ ” Finch began.

“ _The snakes, Harold, if you will._ ” Root sighed, and Reese could almost hear the sound of her cracking her knuckles on the other end. “ _That’s better. Now the line is ours, and ours alone. John, in about two yards, you’ll hit another door. Take it._ ”

Reese moved forward two more yards, but there was no door to be seen. “Root, are you trying to trap us?”

“I think this is the door we want,” said Peter, running his hands over what appeared to be a smooth metal wall. Smooth, except for a small round knob with a diamond-shaped hole in the center.

“Hang on,” Felicia said. “I think I have a key for this…” She removed a necklace from under her blouse, revealing a short metal rod attached to it. The rod fit perfectly in the hole, and when Felicia turned it, the hidden door was unlocked.

“Is that a master key?” Peter asked as Reese led the way into this next hidden passageway - the narrowest one yet.

“Yep.” Felicia stuck the key back under her blouse. “Harry had it made for me when I worked for him.”

Peter’s mind immediately went to places he didn’t care to go. As much as he didn’t really return Felicia’s crush on him, he didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. So he chose not to pursue the subject any further.

“ _This tunnel will take you safely out of the building,_ ” Root said.  _“_ _It’ll appear to come to a dead end, but trust me, it’s not._ ”

“Acknowledged,” Reese said. Silence fell on the group until three minutes later, when they finally reached the supposed dead end Root had described.

“ _Just let me enter the combination,_ ” Root said. A weird, muffled clinking noise echoed over everyone’s earpieces. “ _Six...one...and a buck-fifty._ ” Reese could then hear the clinking again, this time through the wall ahead of them. Seconds later, another hidden door opened up, and Root was waiting for them outside, opening a candy wrapper.

“Gummi Bears?” Reese asked with a raised eyebrow.

Root tapped her foot against the hidden door, which revealed itself to be disguised as a vending machine as Reese crept around and examined it. “Feeling peckish, Root?”

“You know how we hackers are,” Root laughed, unsticking a red Gummi Bear and popping it into her mouth. “Unable to resist the sweets. Although I think it would be best if I avoided the lemon-flavored ones. I hear they have cannabis in them,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper.

“That’s just an urban legend,” laughed Peter. “Along with the whole ‘Mountain Dew makes your balls shrink’ thing. Didn’t stop me from not drinking the stuff, though.”

“You know what else is supposed to be an urban legend?” Root asked. “Spider-Man. Nice to make your acquaintance, Peter Parker,” she said, shaking his hand. “And may I say you’re much more attractive in person?” When Peter blushed again, Root laughed. “I bet you get that a lot, don’t you?”

Once again, Reese found himself on the point of laughing. It seemed every female who met Peter Parker wanted a taste of him. Reese was starting to think maybe Peter should get introduced to Shaw. No way would she get flirty with him - it wasn’t really coded into her personality. That would probably be a very welcome change.

“Back to base, then?” Root asked. Reese noted that the next Gummi Bear she ate was a bright yellow lemon-flavored one. Clearly, she was disregarding her own advice.

“You know the way,” Reese said. “I’m just the gunner.”

“We’ll be following the dark map,” Root said, scarfing down the last of the Gummi Bears and tossing the wrapper in a nearby Dumpster. She then turned to Peter and Felicia. “You two, you’ve never done this before, so I’ll make it quick. You need to step where Reese and I step. It doesn’t have to be exact, but try not to deviate too much from our path. Otherwise, the cameras might catch you. And right now, that’s the last thing you want. Especially you, Peter.”

“Why is that?” Peter asked.

Root began to walk down the alley towards the street. “I’ll let John explain,” she said. “Right now, we need to get back underground.”

Reese held up his gun, poised to shoot at any moment. Barely looking at Peter or Felicia, he began his own brief explanation. “Long story short, Peter, your secret’s out. Those papers you were looking for in Menken’s office? He’s already released them.”

“What?” asked Felicia in disbelief.

“No way,” Peter said. “They have evidence of...oh my God. I-I need to call my aunt. I need to-”

“Not now, Peter,” said Reese, following Root out onto the sidewalk. As the foursome stayed close to the walls of the buildings lining this street, Reese continued, “The police will be tracking your phone. In fact, I need you to give it to me right away.”

Peter sighed, then withdrew his phone from his pocket. As soon as he handed it to Reese, it started ringing. Reese caught a split second’s glimpse of the screen - the caller ID read “Aunt May” - before he dropped it on the concrete and stepped on it.

“Sorry, but that had to be done,” Reese said. “The police can’t be allowed to find you. Not until we can prove your innocence. Which is gonna be pretty tough, because the evidence Menken sent them is pretty incriminating - at least, as far as the court of public opinion is concerned.”

Root laughed as she pressed a crosswalk signal button. “Which, of course, never stopped you from doing your thing, John.”

“That’s different,” Reese said. “‘Vigilante’ is kind of my job description - the only one I have, in fact. But you, Peter, have a normal life to live in addition to your superhero one. If you ask me, you should probably choose one over-”

“THERE THEY ARE!” cried a male voice a few hundred feet behind Reese. He spun around and saw a number of tactical-geared Oscorp security guards - or whatever the hell they were - racing up the street.

“Get behind me!” Reese ordered Peter and Felicia. As soon as they complied, Reese fired on the guards. He still had a nearly-full clip of high-explosive rounds, which caused some pretty serious damage to their armored suits, but otherwise had no more effect on the men themselves than if they’d been shot with regular bullets while wearing Kevlar vests.

From behind Reese, a length of thin wire sprang forward and latched onto the nearest guard’s gun, pulling it away from him. Reese looked down and saw Peter kneeling next to his leg. He had a small cartridge of some kind on his wrist, which was apparently the source of the wire. Or, more accurately, Spider-Man’s webline, Reese realized.

“We got the light,” Root called out pleasantly, leading the way across the street.

Reese fired the last of his special rounds while Peter used more weblines to snag more guns from the guards. “I was always under the impression Spider-Man’s webs were natural,” Reese remarked as Peter handed him one of the guns, a fearsome automatic rifle.

“They didn’t change my DNA that much,” Peter said, holding up an armful of guns - his enhanced strength in action, after having been hidden by his deceptively thin body - and blasting the business ends with webline. “I didn’t grow spinnerets on my ass or anything.”

As Peter tossed aside the guns - tying them up in midair with more webline and hanging them from a balcony a few stories up - Root laughed at his quip. “Who said anything about your ass?”

“Felicia probably did,” Peter said.

“I did not!” Felicia yelled, her hands raised in denial.

“How much further, Root?” Reese asked. He felt like the little kid in the backseat asking “Are we there yet?” Except on this particular ride, he was the long-suffering father, Root the high-energy mother taking over the wheel, and Peter and Felicia were the kids fighting like cats in a bag. It helped him to not think of them as siblings, per se. He could sense that the tension between them wasn’t exactly caused by one-sided feelings.

“Only three more blocks, then we’re in the subway,” Root said.

“Subway?” Peter repeated. “What happened to avoiding the cameras?”

“This is an abandoned subway station,” Root said. “Something you should know about, huh, Peter?”

“What are you talking about?”

Root smiled her usual irritatingly perky smile. “I did my research.”

Resolving to ask either Root or Peter what they were talking about later, Reese again looked around and spotted guards coming in. This time, they weren’t on foot, though. They were in an armored truck, like diamonds on a delivery.

“I think we might want to get there a bit faster, Root,” Reese said.

“I’m on it.” Root whipped out a tablet and started typing away. Ahead of them, the crosswalk lights all changed to let them pass, while the inbound truck’s progress was to be theoretically impeded by a string of red lights going back as far as the eye could see.

Of course, these guys were trained professionals. Traffic laws were nothing to them. And, as Reese expected, they blew the red lights one by one, leaving a trail of fender-bent sedans and angry, swearing cab drivers in their wake.

But then the truck was finally stopped just one block short of catching up to Reese and company. With another command from Root, green lights sprung up in three directions at once. Three idiot drivers at the heads of their lines reacted automatically, moving their cars into the intersection at the same time as the armored truck.

The result was a spectacular four-way collision, leaving the three civilian cars totaled, the truck pinned between two of them, and the civilian drivers all crawling out of their vehicles in various states of injury.

“Really, Root?” Reese asked.

“Nobody’s dead,” Root said. “Yet. So I have nothing major to add to my barely-existent conscience at the moment. Come on, here’s our entrance.” She stopped and knelt over a square metal hatch. “Just as well it’s here - She told me we’re about to get off the dark map.”

Reese used his tools to open the hatch, and the group lowered themselves into the tunnel below. First Root, then Felicia, then Peter, with Reese going last. As soon as they were safely inside the tunnel, Reese turned on his flashlight. “This doesn’t look like our tunnel, Root,” he said.

“We have to follow this one first, then get out again after about half a mile,” Root said, consulting her tablet. Reese had to wonder how she could possibly get internet access in an abandoned subway tunnel. A master hacker she may have been, but still - it seemed like it should have been beyond even her impressive capabilities.

Ten minutes later, they were again out on street level - but not for long. Reese could see the entrance to Finch’s secret lab a hundred feet away from the point where they had resurfaced. Within seconds, they were once again underground, but this time not in uncharted territory. This time, they were in a secure place.

As they approached the subway car in which Finch kept his lab, Peter whistled. “Guess my dad wasn’t the only one to think of this, huh?”

“Oh, come on,” Root laughed. “Everyone who’s anyone has a secret base in a subway car these days. Harold, where are you? You’ve got guests - oh.” Root stopped as a big dog padded up to her, growling lightly.

“Bear,  _affligen_ _,_ ” Reese ordered the dog. Bear complied, sinking to his haunches with a slight whine.

“Oh, our numbers are here?” asked Finch as he stepped out of the subway car. “Good. Maybe one or more of them can help me with this sticky little situation.”

Bear’s eyes followed Peter and Felicia as they stepped into the train and introduced themselves to Finch. “What’s this about ‘numbers?’” Felicia asked.

“And why am I now wanted by the police?” Peter asked.

They continued asking a series of questions, their voices overlapping each other, until Finch held up his hands. “Please, let’s save the questions for another time,” he said. “Right now, another colleague of mine is stuck with a deadly snake.”

“ _A swamp adder, in fact_ _,_ ” said a British-accented voice, familiar to everyone in the room except Finch, who had never met the man before.

“Who is this?” Finch asked. “How did you get on this channel?”

“ _My name is Sherlock Holmes. Am I still in communication with Mr. Parker and Miss Hardy? And that rather uncouth woman who kicked me off this frequency before?_ ”

“Not to steal your line,” Root scoffed, “but I resent that epithet.”

“ _Finch, we got this,_ ” said Shaw. “ _This Holmes guy knows how to deal with poisonous snakes._ ”

“How?” Peter asked. “I thought he was a detective.”

“ _I have a very expansive skill set, Mr. Parker,_ ” said Sherlock. “ _As for you, I should warn you, the police are searching for you. They claim they just want you for questioning, but it’s clear to me and my people that they believe you’re really a murderer. And...there. You’re free, Ms. Shaw._ ”

“Wait…” Peter looked stumped. “Holmes, did you say they think I killed someone?”

“ _Not just any someone,_ ” said Sherlock. “ _Her name is Gwen Stacy._ ”

Reese’s eyes widened at the sight of all the blood draining from Peter’s face. Finch, meanwhile, typed the name into his computer and silently beckoned Reese over to read it. Gwen Stacy was a pretty blonde girl, the daughter of an NYPD captain who died a year ago, and a graduate of Midtown Science High School (Reese remembered from the info Finch had given him that it was Peter’s alma mater as well). A date of death was listed about five months earlier - she’d fallen down a clock tower after what had been said to be some kind of encounter with no less than two supervillain types. Electro, and the Green Goblin, aka Harry Osborn.

Because she was an innocent civilian with no criminal record, there was no list of known associates or confidants in Gwen’s file. However, it didn’t take a psychic to figure out that Peter and Gwen were more than just friends and/or acquaintances.

Reese knew that there was no way Peter could have committed the crime of which he’d been accused. However, some very powerful people were determined to ensure he was the one punished for it. No wonder the Machine had given Finch the boy’s number.


	6. Sometimes We Are Too Tender

_How could they possibly do this? How could anyone think I killed Gwen?_

These thoughts and more raced through Peter’s mind as he left the subway car/computer lab and leaned against one of the columns on the abandoned platform outside. The big brown dog - Bear, he’d heard Mr. Reese call him - padded over to him, sniffing the air and making a small whine.

“Hey, boy,” Peter said, patting the dog’s furry head. “There’s some really bad shit goin’ down.”

Bear made a questioning noise.

“But I guess you already knew that, huh?” Peter sat down, his back still against the column. Bear proceeded to sniff him, paying special attention to the webshooter on his jacket cuff. He unclipped the webshooter and pocketed it so Bear wouldn’t get to it.

“Good thinking,” said a girl’s voice - one Peter recognized so well. “Somehow, I don’t think the others would approve if they found his muzzle all covered in sticky web.”

Peter looked up and saw the voice’s owner kneeling by the dog, gazing fondly at him over Bear’s head.

“Gwen?”

Her green eyes glittered as she smiled at him. “Hey, Peter. How’ve you been?”

“Peter?” Reese’s voice broke Peter’s concentration. He looked back at Gwen, but she was no longer there. “Peter, are you all right?”

Peter stood up, shaking his head to clear it. “Um...yeah. I guess so.”

“As good as it can be, right?” Reese asked. “Being framed is never fun, but the first time has got to be the worst.”

Peter crossed his arms. “Yeah, no kidding. So when do we start workin’ to fix that?”

“Leave that to me,” Reese said. “I’m a cop, remember? I can work from the inside.”

“But you’re a fake cop,” Peter pointed out.

“True. But that only helps-”

“ _John?_ ” Shaw’s voice broke out over Peter’s and Reese’s earpieces. “ _John, this British snake expert guy keeps following me. He’s a terrible tail - he’s makin’ it too obvious what he’s doing._ ”

Reese blinked a couple of times, remaining stone-faced. “Are you following the Dark Map, Shaw?”

“ _Hell no,_ ” Shaw said. “ _Only Root knows it back to front anyway._ ”

“Credit where it’s due, right?” Root asked, using the earpiece even though she was inside the subway car, less than twenty feet away. “Thanks, Sameen. That was lovely of you.”

“ _Not now!_ ” Shaw hissed. “ _Right now, I want you guys to keep an eye on me, see if you can spot any other people who might be tailin’ me. I think the snake man is just a decoy._ ”

“I think you might be right,” Reese said. “Peter, come with me,” he added, beckoning him into the lab. “You know the snake man, right? Maybe you can spot some of his associates for us.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see if I can find anyone else from Team Sherlock.”

“Good,” Reese said. “You can help too, Felicia.”

“Help with what?” Felicia asked.

While Reese quickly explained to Felicia what was happening now, Peter stood behind Finch and watched him type away frantically. Finch hacked through a variety of firewalls with shocking speed. Peter noted that Root was looking at Finch with some kind of strange, indefinable expression. Professional envy, or professional superiority? He’d gotten the impression that Root was beyond dangerous with technology in her hands.

“I’ve got an eye on you, Ms. Shaw,” Finch said once he was able to pull up a window on his computer, displaying a live security feed in real time.

Root leaned up and squinted at the view of a crowded sidewalk - it looked like somewhere in Midtown, not too far from Oscorp Tower. “For future reference, Peter, that’s Sameen,” she said, pointing at a dark-haired woman looking ahead with an intense, hawk-eyed gaze.

“Sameen...you mean Shaw?” Peter asked.

“I prefer to be on a first-name basis with people whenever possible,” Root said. “Unlike some of my cohorts. Harold here likes to call me by my real name - can you imagine? ‘Ms. Groves’ isn’t nearly as threatening as ‘Root.’ Still, I suppose it beats Lionel’s nickname for me - ‘Cocoa Puffs?’”

“Why, ‘cause you’re cuckoo?”

Root giggled like a little girl, the sound creeping Peter out very much. “Just so you know, Peter, I’ve done time in a mental asylum. And for good reason, too. I am  _so_  unbalanced.” She gave him a sweet smile, unnerving him further.

“Ms. Groves, please,” Finch said, turning his entire body to look at her, not just his head. Peter had noticed before that Finch seemed to be very stiff and generally immobile. He couldn’t turn his head, he had a pronounced limp, and his entire body seemed to wobble when he walked. Taken by themselves, any one of these eccentricities of motion could have simply been a sign of old age taking its toll. But all these issues, in addition to making Finch look like a starving penguin, made Peter suspect something worse. Old battle wounds, maybe. But from where?

“Excuse me for trying to make conversation, Harold,” Root said, pouting. Peter began to agree with Root’s self-assessment - “Unbalanced” definitely seemed to be the right word to describe her. A more clinical one might have been “bipolar,” except Root’s apparent mood swings came too quickly to be that particular disorder.

“Maybe later,” Finch said. “Right now, Mr. Parker and Miss...Hardy, is it?” Felicia nodded. “Yes, well, they need to keep their focus. Ms. Groves, perhaps you could find another place to work and ensure Samaritan doesn’t catch Ms. Shaw?”

“I hate being left out,” Root groused, but she obeyed Finch’s request anyway, giving Peter and Felicia some space to work in.

They followed Shaw’s progress as she walked up the street. Peter was the first to notice Sherlock following her about twenty feet behind. As Shaw had said, Sherlock was making it no secret that he was following her. He kept on ducking behind people a split second too late every time Shaw turned around. He also made a huge show out of peering around said people, like he was Scooby-Doo hiding behind a large flower pot.

Peter couldn’t help but laugh at Sherlock’s display. It was so ridiculous - and so transparent. Even though he wasn’t as well-versed in spycraft as Reese and Shaw (his particular brand of stealth was different, and admittedly less subtle), he could tell Sherlock was simply there to distract Shaw from the real tail. Watson or Mycroft, perhaps. More likely, it was Watson - she was the most unobtrusive one. Peter therefore resolved to keep a sharper eye out for Watson than for Mycroft.

“Anything?” Reese asked.

Peter and Felicia shook their heads. Finch changed the view, allowing them to see Shaw from behind. Sherlock was continuing to do his Scooby-Doo routine. But then Peter saw Watson walking ahead of Shaw, very occasionally turning around to see Shaw.

He pointed Watson out to Reese, who in turn alerted Shaw. On the camera feed, Shaw could be seen pretending to read a map, shading her eyes in the process. “ _I see her,_ ” she said. “ _I hate to ask, but where’s Root? The faster I can get to the Dark Map, the better._ ”

Behind Shaw, Sherlock froze. “ _Watson!_ ” he cried. Peter noticed that the audio of his speech didn’t match the camera feed, which had a one-second delay. “ _Watson, they know!_ ”

Root tuned Shaw out at this point, which was just as well because she’d started muttering foul obscenities under her breath. In the background, Peter could hear her directing Shaw out of the cameras’ range.

Meanwhile, Reese narrowed his eyes at the image of Sherlock on the screen. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “Snake expert...and ‘consulting detective?’” He chuckled as he read the file Finch had pulled up in another window. “Wow. If I’d have known it was possible to take our business legit, I would’ve become a consulting detective a long time ago.”

“ _Who are you?_ ” Sherlock asked. “ _Are you the people who took my young associates?_ ”

“We didn’t take them, though,” Reese said. “They came with us. Then again, they didn’t have much choice.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Holmes,” Felicia said quickly. “Peter and I are fine.”

“ _No, you’re not,_ ” said Watson - apparently, she had an earpiece too. Reese snapped his fingers, and Finch began to look up her file, taking a snapshot of her face so the computer could search for it. “ _The police think you killed someone, Peter. Well, actually, they think Spider-Man did it. Of course, we know it’s just part of Oscorp’s plan, but-_ ”

“That’s nice,” Reese said, prompting Joan to scoff in disgust at the interruption. “But we’re gonna be watching over Peter for a while. So can you get off the private party line, please?”

“ _No, no, no, wait_ _-_ ” Sherlock cried, but it was too late. Reese had pressed his earwig and cut him and Watson out of the conversation.

Peter put his hand over his mouth. “Wait a second. What did she mean, ‘they think Spider-Man did it?’”

Reese and Finch exchanged glances. Root, meanwhile, showed Peter a video on her tablet, in which a police captain was announcing at a press conference that morning that Spider-Man had been accused of murder, and was wanted for questioning.

“Right,” Peter said, pushing the tablet away. He was reminded too strongly of the time Gwen’s dad had given a similar statement on TV, telling the city that Spider-Man had an arrest warrant issued against him. “So they want Spider-Man, right? Not Peter Parker?”

“You’re free to go, if that’s what you’re asking,” Finch said. “However, I strongly advise you to refrain from your...nocturnal activities. For now, anyway.”

“I’m not nocturnal,” Peter protested. “Not always. But hey, I’m pretty good at avoidin’ cops, actually. Even though I haven’t had to do it in a while.”

“Not for a year, at least,” Reese said. “That’s how long it’s been since the police were last after you, right?”

On the platform, Bear started barking up a storm for a second. Then he stopped when Shaw came in at last. She looked around and saw the two new faces in the subway car. “Spider-Man?” she asked.

“How’d you guess?” Peter said, looking at her warily.

“A little birdie told me,” Shaw said, winking at Reese.

“Uh-huh,” Peter said. “Okay, well, if I’m really free to go, I should get outta here. My aunt...she’s gonna get worried about me.”

“Okay,” Reese said. “But if we need you again, we’re gonna call.”

“I don’t recall givin’ you my number,” Peter quipped, knowing exactly how Reese and company managed to get it.

“I’ll go with you,” said Felicia. “Oscorp wants me to stick with you anyway.”

“Really?” Peter tilted his head. “You’re supposed to tail me? Or is that just an excuse?”

“No,” Felicia said, dusting off her blouse. “They really want me to follow you. Or, at least, Menken does. He sent an e-mail yesterday.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Gotta keep the boss happy, huh? Even a dick like that?”

Felicia snorted with laughter. “All right, Peter, come on. Let’s make sure you get home right.”

Peter said goodbye to Reese and his group, then let Felicia follow him back to the street. “You know, you don’t have to actually take me home,” he said. “I’ll catch the train myself. One that actually works.”

“You know I was just kidding about the tail thing, right?” Felicia said. “I actually haven’t gotten any news from my boss for a few days now.”

“Then why are you following me, if it’s not official evil Oscorp business?” Peter looked around for the nearest operation subway station, and spotted one two blocks away.

“I just wanna talk, Peter,” Felicia said. “It’s gotta be hard on you, bein’ framed for your girl’s murder.”

“Please stop talkin’ to me,” Peter said, walking faster to get away from Felicia.

“Look, I know I’ve condoned a lot from Oscorp by continuing to work with them, but-”

Peter stopped and whirled around, pointing his finger in Felicia’s face. “Look, I don’t wanna hear it, all right? Whatever stupid schoolgirl crush you’ve got on me, let it go. I’m not interested, all right?” Without another word, he turned around again and disappeared into the subway station.

As he sat in the car, Peter thought about the way he’d treated Felicia. He knew he’d been rude and dismissive to her, but he also couldn’t trust her because of her Oscorp connection. Who knew if she was being honest about not being told to track him? If Oscorp had the means to frame Spider-Man, it was entirely possible they knew who he was.

“Good for you,” Gwen’s voice said. “Nothing like a bit of healthy paranoia to keep you alive.”

Peter could swear Gwen was sitting next to him and holding his hand, but he knew she couldn’t be there.  _Note to self,_  he thought.  _Look online for schizophrenia symptoms._

"You’re not hallucinating,” Gwen said, blinking a couple of times and adjusting her hat. “I’m real. Except not really. You’ll have to let me double-check on that, but there’s an explanation for this - and it doesn’t involve quantum physics either.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed his cheek. “Never thought I’d be the one to kiss your tears away.”

Peter raised his hand to his cheek, feeling the single tear dripping away. He looked at Gwen, but once again she was gone. Now he felt even more down than ever.


	7. Somebody's Watching Me

Sherlock cursed under his breath. What twisted web had he gotten himself into with this latest case? Internally, he laughed at his own (admittedly unintentional) joke. Outwardly, however, he remained as ostensibly emotionless as ever as he regrouped with Watson in a coffee shop near the place where they’d lost track of the dark woman they’d been trying to tail.

“So what exactly happened with that woman and the snake?” Watson asked after planting a pair of plastic cups on the table. Cappuccino for herself, and espresso for Sherlock.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Sherlock said, staring daggers at the flower-shaped mass of whipped cream floating on top of the dark liquid in his cup. “And I only take one sugar, Watson, not two.”

Watson frowned, then took a sip of her own coffee. “Oh, my mistake,” she said. “I should’ve put the other sugar in mine.”

“Maybe you should have,” Sherlock griped.

“You wanna order another?” Watson asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “One extra sugar makes all the difference in the world, but it doesn’t render the coffee undrinkable. At least your error is a considerably smaller one than those I’ve seen many a London barista make.” He downed his espresso in one gulp, then wiped his mouth before continuing. “As much as I hate to rely on my brother and his spycraft, I have to ask - Mycroft, is the tracking device still broadcasting that woman’s location?”

Sherlock waited for his brother’s voice to come in over the scratchy, static-filled earpiece he still had in place. “ _Yes, she’s still on the move. Remind me, Sherlock, why did you feel the need to track her?_ ”

“I thought it suspicious that I was being asked for when I was already in the middle of an important mission,” Sherlock said. “And by the time she called me for help, I had already heard her voice. I picked up a partial conversation between her and Miss Hardy’s hacker friend. Partial, but enough for me to commit the cadence and timbre of her voice to memory.”

“Of course it was enough,” Watson muttered under her breath. She looked down at her coffee, then got up to grab another sugar packet for herself.

“Let me know if anything changes,” Sherlock said.

“ _Will do_ _,_ ” Mycroft said.

Sherlock stayed silent while he waited for Watson to return. He proceeded to watch the people in the coffee shop as they went about their business. One man standing near Watson put honey in his cup, to Sherlock’s disgust. He’d always reviled the practice of using honey as a sweetener for coffee or tea - for some reason, the idea never sat well with him. A severe-looking woman in the corner turned the page of her newspaper - the  _Investor’s Post,_  with its distinctive salmon-colored stock. A tall younger woman, likely a college student, tucked her flaming red hair behind her ear before going up to try and chat up the attractive male barista. Sherlock, however, had spotted a pink-and-purple gel bracelet on said barista’s hand, and so he deduced that there was a fifty percent chance he was seeking another man, instead of a woman.

“ _Sherlock, something’s happened,_ ” Mycroft said a split second before Watson returned. Watson nearly dropped her coffee as she heard the message as well. Clearly, she was just as surprised as Sherlock that Mycroft had broken radio silence again so soon.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked, already feeling a bit of a jitter as the espresso began working its way into his system.

“ _We’ve lost the signal,_ ” Mycroft said. “ _We had the woman tracked to an alley near Chinatown, but then she walked into a building and…_ ” His voice trailed off.

“Tell us where to go,” Watson said. “We’ll pick up the trail from there if we can.”

Mycroft gave them the address, and with that, they headed off for their destination. Along the way, while stopped at a crosswalk waiting for the light to change, Sherlock did another look around, and he could have sworn he saw Peter Parker walking into a subway station down the street. Sure, there were undoubtedly a great many skinny young men with messy brown hair - but he also recognized the black peacoat, which he’d seen Peter wear the day they’d met.

“Sherlock!” Watson called - she’d already crossed the street. Sherlock turned to look at her, then returned his gaze to the subway entrance, by which time Peter had of course vanished from view. In any case, as the saying went, they had bigger fish to fry. So Sherlock put aside all thought of Peter Parker and ran across the street to catch up with Watson, reaching the other side a couple of seconds after the light changed again.

Three blocks later, they reached the place to which Mycroft had directed them. “Er, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, looking around and taking in every square inch of space he could see, “I think there must be a mistake. There are no doors leading off this alley. Nor any windows. The only ways in are at either end, and the only other object of consequence in here is a vending machine.”

“ _That’s odd,_ ” Mycroft said. “ _These trackers are supposed to be accurate to within two feet anywhere on the globe. Unless this woman’s comrades were able to spoof it somehow...it is possible. That one hacker was able to cut out our communications with Mr. Parker and Miss Hardy, so-_ ”

“Do you think the vending machine is a secret door?” Watson asked, walking over to it and examining it closely. She then pulled out a few coins from her purse and held them in one hand, as if contemplating using them to unlock whatever door the vending machine may have been hiding.

“Mycroft, you’re the spy,” Sherlock said. “Tell us, if you were a secret door disguised as a vending machine, how would you open?”

“ _If you bought the right snack, perhaps,_ ” Mycroft said. “ _I would think you’d be best off selecting the least popular snack available._ ”

“It’s hard to tell which one would be the least popular,” Sherlock said. “It looks like nobody uses this machine to begin with.”

Watson pored over the selection of snacks. “I’ve only got five dollars to spend, so let’s choose wisely,” she said. “I’d say let’s start with the parmesan-flavored Cheez-Its. I’ve never seen anyone eat those.”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock said. “Because I think I see something a little more anomalous than Italian cheese crackers.” He pointed to a pack of Gummi Bears in the bottom row. “They’re all yellow. Every single one, in every single packet in that row, is yellow. That could either be a reference to the urban legend of yellow Gummi Bears containing cannabis, or it could be a clue to the code for this secret door, hmm?”

“I’ve never heard of any urban legend about yellow Gummi Bears and cannabis,” Watson said skeptically.

“You would if you paid attention to Everyone’s internal communications from time to time,” Sherlock said. “They’re the ones responsible for said urban legend.”

“Everyone lets you in on their evil plans?” Watson asked.

“They’ve been known to seek my advice for their evil plans,” Sherlock said, holding out his hands so Watson could hand him some change. “Of course, it seems that whenever we find ourselves in need of their services, they prefer to take our payment - and their pleasure - in outlandish public humiliation, rather than advice and suggestions from myself.”

Sherlock slid six quarters into the coin slot, then pressed the code on the keypad to summon a pack of yellow Gummi Bears. No sooner did he do so than an alarm went off, the noise blasting through the alley and echoing off all the walls.

“Are you sure you made the right decision?” Watson yelled.

“They must not take kindly to strangers!” Sherlock yelled back.

Seconds later, the alarm stopped just as suddenly as it had started. Sherlock approached the vending machine and stared into its depths. “Whoever’s in there, kindly let us in,” he said. “We just want to talk about Peter Parker.”

There was a very long pause, and then the machine opened up at last, its Plexiglas front face swinging out one way and the array of snacks on racks swinging the other. Then a small, slender woman with somewhat elfin-looking features emerged, smiling sweetly at Sherlock and Watson.

“What do you know about Peter Parker?” she asked. Both Sherlock and Watson recognized the voice of Felicia Hardy’s hacker contact.

Sherlock held up one hand. “First things first - are you affiliated with Everyone, by any chance?”

“No,” said the woman, shaking her head. “While I applaud their efforts to use cyberspace to screw with the system, my hat’s too black for their taste. You may call me Root. And you are Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson, am I right?”

“Is there any point asking how you got our names?” Watson asked.

“I think you can figure it out for yourselves,” said Root. “Three guesses, and the first two don’t count. Oh, and by the way, Sherlock, our date arrangement? Consider it cancelled. I’m more interested in another person anyway. You probably know her - you tracked her here, did you not, with your spy brother’s assistance?”

“I take it she’s still here, then, hmm?” Sherlock asked.

Root stepped back to let him and Watson enter. “She is here, yes. Along with the rest of our associates, who all want to know why you’re so interested in Spider-Man.”

“We want to help him, of course,” Sherlock said. “We were tipped off by an inside woman at Oscorp that they were planning to frame Spider-Man for their crimes. Don’t tell me Miss Hardy came to you and your people as well?”

“No, but we were alerted by a fourth party,” Root said. “Would you like to come in and find out, or just stand there awkwardly like that? I hear it might start raining soon.”

Sherlock and Watson exchanged glances. He shrugged, then entered the secret door, with Watson following closely behind him.

“Excellent,” said Root, closing the door and edging past Sherlock and Watson. “Welcome to our little rabbit hole. If you will follow me…”


	8. You're Never Gonna Keep Me Down

Peter tried to ignore Gwen’s presence as long as possible. But when he got home and unlocked the front door, she slid through before it could close behind him. Then, safely shielded from any prying eyes since he was all alone in the house, he rounded on Gwen and said, “You’re dead. You’re not real.”

“Oh, that’s really nice,” Gwen said, pursing her lips. “After you cried for me on that train, now you’re pissed that I came to see you? Why?”

“I’m not pissed,” Peter said, shaking his head. “God, no. Why...why would I be pissed?”

Gwen crossed her arms and leaned against the closed front door. “You’re telling me I’m not real, but here I am. I promise, you’re not hallucinating, even though you’re the only one who can see me.”

“Haha, really?” Peter laughed. “By any definition, that’s hallucinating.”

“I’m serious,” Gwen said. “I’m really here. I’m really talking to you.”

Peter didn’t want to continue arguing with a ghost. He therefore turned on his heel and climbed the stairs. As soon as he reached his room, he removed his webshooters from his wrists and stuck them in his desk drawer.

He heard Gwen follow him upstairs. He wanted to tell her to go away, but he couldn’t. That would hurt him as much as it would hurt her. “Oh my God,” she said as she looked at his bulletin board. “Oh my God. You still have the pictures of me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Peter asked. “I can’t let myself forget you, Gwen.”

“True. True.” Gwen bent down to look more closely at the photo, then let out a small laugh. “I can see all the lip smudges, you know.”

Peter began laughing way too loudly, mostly to cover for the tears of mingled delight and depression he was shedding. “I should’ve worn lipstick for that. That would really have amused you, I bet.”

“You say that as if you were expecting me to pay you a visit,” Gwen said. “And...you know what? I just realized - I’ve never actually been in your room before. But you’ve been in mine so many times.”

Peter shook his head, a rueful expression on his face. “Yeah. What’s wrong with this picture? Oh, but the only times you’ve ever visited me were in my dreams.”

“Please tell me they were the sexy kind,” Gwen said, chewing her lip for a moment. Peter thought she’d picked up that particular move from him - he tended to do that a lot when he should have been letting the words roll off his tongue. He wondered if his lip-biting turned her on as much as hers did for…

“No, no, no, no, no,” Peter said, holding up his hands.

“Denial, Peter,” Gwen laughed. “It’s not just a river in Egypt.”

“I’m serious,” Peter said, trying to purge himself of dirty thoughts. “The only dreams I have of you are...um…” Now it was his turn to bite his lip. Finally, he forced himself to spit it out. “The night you died.”

“Oh,” Gwen said, no longer laughing. “Oh wow. Yeah, I...I didn’t know. Of course, I suspected you would...but I wasn’t actually there in your dreams. I can’t do that.”

“Most of it was just me reliving what actually happened,” Peter said, sitting on his bed.

“I figured,” Gwen said.

Peter couldn’t believe he still had tears left in him. He shuddered as Gwen hugged him, trying to hold himself back from continuing to cry. But her touch felt so solid, so real...he couldn’t help himself. He finally gave in, well and truly breaking down. Wiping his eyes on the back of his hand, he turned and left a tear-stained kiss on Gwen’s cheek.

Gwen responded by kissing his neck right when he swallowed the lump in his throat. She snickered, probably at the sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing. Then she said, “I almost wanna leave you a hickey, but then you’d be totally unable to stop thinking about me.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, standing up with Gwen’s arms still wrapped around him. “Yeah, and besides, w-wasn’t it my job to give you hickeys, not the other way around?”

“And it was all I could do to not let my dad see them,” Gwen said, sliding her hand under Peter’s shirt and playfully pinching his side. “When he was alive, of course.”

The mention of Captain George Stacy made Peter grow pensive. The only reason why he’d ever expected to see visions of Gwen after her death was because her dad had made a few similar postmortem appearances for him. Always silent, always sporting his police uniform. Always watching.  _Always._  His silent disapproval had led him to break up with Gwen a second time, on the night of their graduation. And practically in front of Gwen’s mom and brothers, too.

Peter was wondering why Gwen’s ghost wasn’t nearly as strong and stoic as her dad’s. Maybe it was just because of their different personalities. They at least had a major sarcastic streak in common, but aside from that...Gwen was definitely more talkative, more open-minded. It had taken so long for her dad to take him (and Spider-Man) seriously, and by the time he did, he was literally about to die. Peter didn’t think there could ever have been anything more unfair - well, except for the night of Uncle Ben’s death, after he’d gone out into the night to try and find him. And then along came Gwen’s death after he promised to go with her to England.

Truly, his life was tragic.

But Peter needed to get back up and dust himself off. As much as he was annoyed by that stupid late-nineties hit song from Chumbawamba (a song practically as old as he was), it had a good message about never being kept down. It was a message he’d had to make himself take to heart so many times since he’d gotten into the superhero business. It was one of those jobs that every kid wanted to have at some point in their childhood, but having actually become one, Peter could tell anyone that it wasn’t anywhere near all it was cracked up to be. The one major thing that kept him going in this (sometimes sorrowful) secret life was the fact that he was simply doing some much-needed good in the world.

He took out his phone and found his way to the  _New York Times_  site, then the sites for CNN, Fox News, MSNBC, and the local stations. All of them had front-page coverage of today’s press conference calling for the arrest of Spider-Man. None, however, had revealed that he, Peter Parker, was Spider-Man.

“You think Oscorp knows who you are?” Gwen asked, as if hearing his thoughts.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Harry told them,” Peter said, his lips curling. It had been so long since he’d spoken the name of his former best friend, and he didn’t think he’d ever be able to do so again without his stomach churning in disgust. “And I bet they’re withholding it for a while just to pique people’s interest or something.”

“You’re right,” Gwen said. “That wouldn’t be a surprise.”

Peter got off the bed and opened his closet, then took off his shirt, followed by the upper half of Spider-Man’s outfit. As he folded the spandex up and tucked it away in his preferred hiding place, Gwen tried and failed to stifle a snicker. “I’m really enjoying the view, Peter,” she said. Even if she hadn’t added “Seriously” afterwards, Peter would have had no problem figuring out that she was, for once, not being sarcastic in her commentary.

Peter turned to Gwen and, for the first time, since she’d joined him, cracked a genuine smile. “Guess I’ll have to be strictly nocturnal again,” he said. “For the...for the time being.”

“As long as you’re still Spider-Man, I don’t mind,” Gwen said. “‘Cause let’s face it, if things start getting worse after that guy in the Rhino suit attacked the city today, the last thing you wanna be able to say is that you fell down on the job.” She embraced him from behind, her hands feeling so warm against his stomach, then kissed him goodbye. “Just as well I leave now,” she said, “before you take off the other half of that outfit.”

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” Peter quipped, laughing as Gwen ruffled his hair before finally leaving his room. Inside, though, he was grateful that Gwen was leaving now. He didn’t want his feelings for her to resurge like that, especially not for her ghost. Or whatever she was. Eventually, he needed to move on, find another to love. That would prove a real challenge, because while Spider-Man made so many of New York’s girls weak at the knees, that was a talent that wasn’t shared by Peter Parker. Take, for instance, his next door neighbor, Mary Jane Watson. She was a known Spider-Man fangirl - Peter had seen her sporting at least two different Spidey shirts since she’d first moved in eight months earlier - but as for Peter, she barely took notice of him, except maybe to give him a brief wave hello.

By sheer happenstance, when Peter next stepped out the door (he was going to buy some chicken breasts for tonight’s dinner), Mary Jane was leaving her house as well. As they heard each other’s doors close, one after the other, they turned in each other’s direction.

“Uh...hi,” Peter said, waving awkwardly. He felt almost like he was talking to Gwen for the first time - unable to properly express himself, unable to not trip on his own tongue.

“Hi,” Mary Jane said, waving back with one hand - her other held a paper coffee cup. “What’s up, Peter?”

“Um...I was just, uh, you know...going out.”

“Don’t tell me,” Mary Jane said. “You were gonna go to Gwen Stacy’s grave?” Peter didn’t respond for the longest time, and eventually, Mary Jane added, “It’s okay if you were. I was gonna go there myself.”

“R-Really?” Peter asked, floored by this revelation. “You...you knew her too?”

“Yeah,” Mary Jane said, smiling as she and Peter finally met up on the sidewalk. Peter noticed that she was almost as tall as he was, give or take a couple of inches. “We used to go for coffee in the city all the time.”

“Cool,” Peter said. He thought back to the times when he and Gwen weren’t seeing each other, and yet he would still follow her stealthily, in costume, so he could keep an eye on her. Essentially, it was glorified stalking - something Gwen, naturally, was quick to point out when she first learned about it. He tried to remember if he could have also seen Mary Jane’s distinctive red hair in the group of people Gwen would meet up with. He couldn’t, not really - but to be fair, he was more concerned with seeing Gwen than taking notice of her friends.

“You were her boyfriend, right?” Mary Jane asked as they set off for the cemetery.

“Off and on,” Peter said, weighing his hands. “Um, but it was on again when she died.”

Mary Jane winced in sympathy. “Oh my God. That must have been-”

“Painful, I know,” Peter said. “But I’m...I’m getting over it. Slowly.”

They didn’t speak again until they reached the cemetery. Finally, when they got to Gwen’s grave, Mary Jane said, “She talked about you a lot, you know. Even when you two were, um, off instead of on.”

“I imagine she had some choice words,” Peter said. He turned around, half-expecting Gwen’s ghost to be standing behind them and ready to jump in and offer her side of the story. But he and Mary Jane were alone.

“She did,” Mary Jane said. “She had nothing but great things to say about you. But somehow, I don’t think she told us everything.”

“Probably not,” Peter said. “I can be complicated when I wanna be.”

“Haha, sure,” Mary Jane said. “And I’m the Queen of England.”

Peter’s face brightened for a moment, even as he simultaneously felt a twinge of guilt. Visiting Gwen’s grave with another girl, and the two of them sharing jokes - it felt a bit like he was betraying her memory.

Nevertheless, the next thing he found himself saying was, “Th-Thanks, Mary Jane. I really needed this.”

She playfully squeezed his shoulder. “Nobody calls me ‘Mary Jane,’” she laughed. “Don’t you remember the day I moved in? I told everyone I go by ‘MJ.’”

“Like Michael Jackson?” Peter laughed.

MJ actually had to bite her hand to stop herself from sharing in the laughter. “Yeah. Yeah, exactly. Just like Michael Jackson.”

Peter looked back down at Gwen’s grave, once again reading her name and dates of birth and death. This was followed by the words “Beloved Daughter.”

 _Don’t forget “Beloved Girlfriend,_ _”_  he thought to himself. He then got on his knees and kissed his fingers before touching the grave, just like he did for the picture on his bulletin board.


	9. Descent Into Deviant Behavior

When Root had brought Sherlock and Watson to Finch's lab, Reese had had no more than a few minutes to deliver a cursory greeting to this latest pair of guests before he'd been forced to leave. He couldn't abandon his NYPD cover for too long, especially not when Fusco needed his help on a fresh case.

"It's a crying shame, you know?" Fusco muttered as they drove up to the scene. "Another attack on innocent civilians? I mean, seriously. First, we get that Russkie assbite tear-assing through Manhattan in a mechanical rhino suit - thank God for Spider-Man coming back from the dead when he did, am I right?"

"Yeah," Reese said, flashing his badge to the unis manning the line of "Do Not Cross" tape stretched around the entrance to the crime scene, a certain hole in the wall known as Kafe Ruin. Despite the menacing name, the place wasn't meant to be such a disaster zone as it was today. It was merely named after a historical site in Turkey, one of the oldest continuously-inhabited places on the planet. "Yeah," Reese repeated after stepping through the door. "Thank God." Automatically, he looked around for the nearest security camera - but when he found it, he saw that it was utterly destroyed. A wreck of plastic, glass, and silicon.

"And now this," Fusco said, gesturing at the still-bloodstained walls of the café. "What, someone's got a problem with Turkish coffee?"

Reese took a pair of rubber gloves from the nearest CSU, who then proceeded to hand another pair to Fusco. "I hear the whole Greek vs. Turkish coffee thing can be pretty serious business."

" _Technically, both appellations are incorrect,_ " said Sherlock - apparently he'd taken over the mike in Finch's lab. " _Not only did the drinking of coffee originate in Yemen, but the process of preparing what is known as quote-unquote 'Turkish coffee' also came to Constantinople via Syrian merchants. Who may have themselves learned it from their Arab counterparts, hmm?_ "

" _I do apologize for this, Mr. Reese,_ " said Finch in a long-suffering tone of voice. " _But Mr. Holmes insisted on being in contact with you at all times._ "

" _Mr. Finch, do you have the live feed ready?_ " asked Sherlock. " _I do need to view the scene._ "

" _Just a second,_ " said Finch. " _Oh no. It looks as if the camera is out._ "

Reese looked up at the camera once again. "I could've told you that myself, Finch."

" _We'll have to improvise,_ " Finch said. " _Mr. Reese, use your phone and film the crime scene._ "

"You're not gonna like what you see," Reese said, complying with Finch's request.

On the other end of the line, there was a long pause as Finch - and Sherlock, presumably - scanned the video feed Reese was sending in. " _Oh dear,_ " Finch said. " _All this blood..._ "

" _It appears that the victims - those I can see, anyway - were killed by sharp-force trauma,_ " Sherlock said. " _Or perhaps shotgun blasts. This is going by the holes in their torsos._ "

Out of the corner of his eye, Reese spotted Fusco peering around, trying to get into his camera's view. "Hey, are you on with Glasses?" he asked. "Hope he's got a name we're supposed to be looking for."

" _Nothing new at the moment,_ " Finch said. " _Peter Parker remains the only number in our system._ "

"That's a no," Reese told Fusco.

"All right. Guess we gotta do this the old-fashioned way."

Fusco turned to the one other live human being in the room - the café's owner, a middle-aged blonde woman named Teresa Tavşanlı. She had, very luckily, gone into the back room to look for sugar and thus escaped the massacre. "We...we needed more baklava," she said in accented English.

Reese looked at the glass-fronted display on the counter, where a neat variety of Turkish desserts sat pretty on platters. The platter marked "Baklava" was nearly empty, other than a couple of small wedges of flaky pastry.

"Did you see anything?" Reese asked. "Anything at all would help."

"Um...yes," Tavşanlı said, kneading her forehead. "Before the camera was cut, I saw a man. Very suspicious."

"How so?" asked Fusco.

"He was...most unusual," said Tavşanlı. "He was a big man. H-Huge. Close to two meters. And he wore pants patterned like...like...like a  _kaplan._ "

"Say again?" Reese asked.

"The big cat with the stripes," said Tavşanlı. "I forget the English name."

"A tiger?" Fusco supplied.

"That's it. Yes." At this point, Tavşanlı shuddered and backed away, indicating that she was done talking. Reese wasn't going to push her further, so he turned and made one more circuit of the crime scene, allowing Finch and Sherlock - and everyone else who may have happened to be in the lab at the time - one last good look at the scene.

"Do any of you know anything about any murderous men in tiger pants?" he asked.

"No, but I can tell you one thing," Fusco said, even though he knew the question wasn't meant for him. "That'll probably be another one for Spider-Man to defeat. Whoever this killer is, he sounds like some kind of comic-book supervillain. Campy as shit, but super-dangerous."

" _I did hear something about a sort of tiger hunter who dressed like the animals he poached,_ " Finch said. " _I'll do a search-_ "

" _No need,_ " Sherlock said. " _The description matches a particularly pernicious Russian with whom my former colleagues at Scotland Yard once disastrously crossed swords. Metaphorically speaking - because the man was able to fight them off with only his bare hands._ "

"What's his name?" Reese asked, stepping into the passenger seat of the police cruiser in which he'd arrived with Fusco.

"What, we got a name?" asked Fusco. "Hell of about time, Glasses, if you're listening."

" _Sergei Kravinoff,_ " said Sherlock.

Reese nodded once. "Another Russian, then. Sergei Kravinoff, Fusco."

"Never heard of him."

" _No, but the Machine has,_ " Finch said. " _And now I know why we didn't get his number._ "

Reese raised his eyebrows. "Dare I ask?"

" _He's not irrelevant. He's wanted by the FBI._ "

" _There's one anomaly in this conclusion, though,_ " said Sherlock. " _One that threatens to undo our entire supposition._ " He paused, and Reese could hear the clacking of keys for a few seconds. " _Ah, yes. The reason why Kravinoff fought off my compatriots the way he did - bare-handed - is because he believes himself to be such a strong and superior hunter that he needs no weapons._ "

"No weapons, huh?" Reese muttered.

"Sometimes," Fusco griped as he turned the engine on and pulled away, "I hate not being in on the loop with you and Glasses. Hell, I wouldn't mind even being able to trade theories with Cocoa Puffs for a while."

" _Someone tell Lionel to be careful what he wishes for,_ " Root chirped.

"No weapons means this may not be Kravinoff, then," Reese said. "In that case, who could it be?"

" _That's what's up to us to find out,_ " said Finch. " _Reese, as soon as you can, could you come back to the train? We might need your help here again._ "

"Copy that, Finch," said Reese. "As soon as I can get away, of course. And as soon as I make sure that therapist doesn't try and rope me into another session again."


	10. I'm Gonna Get Myself In Trouble

"Y-You serious?" Peter asked, unsure he'd heard MJ correctly. "Gwen asked you to teach her to ride a motorbike?"

MJ's smile brightened. "She was gonna move to England, wasn't she? And they have loads of motorbikes and motor scooters there. She just wanted some practice."

Peter laughed out loud, then looked around - he and MJ had just turned onto their street. He could see their houses not a hundred feet away. As they'd walked back from Gwen's grave, they'd been trading war stories about her. Peter hadn't known many of the things MJ told him about Gwen, and vice versa. The motorcycle thing wasn't the most unbelievable one, though, as far as MJ was concerned. She still refused to accept that Gwen's first (and only) time meeting Peter's Uncle Ben culminated in him shouting across the hall to her, "He's got you on his computer!" Of course, MJ had never met Uncle Ben - she moved in next door after he'd died - so she couldn't know just how amazingly embarrassing the old man could be when he wanted to be. And boy, did he want to be, so very much.

"Is this a bad time to say I have no idea how to ride one of those things?" Peter asked.

"What, a motorbike?" MJ said. "Well, then again, you drive a car. It's a bit of a beat-up junker - yeah, I know that's redundant to say - but it gets you from Point A to Point B, right?"

Peter smiled at the thought of the old Outback that he'd inherited from Uncle Ben. It was old enough to be considered vintage, small enough that it could be easily driven through the city without too much stress, and outdoorsy enough for any eventual camping trips he might go on. If he had a friend to go camping with, that is. And he'd spent a good chunk of his teenage years learning how to do repairs on the engine, which occasionally would decide to get uncooperative and stubbornly refuse to start.

"You don't think it makes me look bad, though?" he asked.

She grinned at him. "What, that you don't know everything?" This would be the time when Gwen would punch him in the shoulder or humerus, if she were here. MJ, however, seemed to be a little less violent, even in the more playful sense that Gwen was known for.

"Maybe I should at least learn to ride a motorbike myself," Peter said. "Now that Gwen can't take your lessons anymore, someone's gotta."

"You'd be learning at your own risk," MJ pointed out. "But for motorbike teachers, you can't do any better than me."

"Really?"

"Face it, Tiger," MJ said, her grin expanding almost to the breaking point. "You just hit the jackpot!"

They reached her house first. "Well, uh, I guess this is my stop," she said, taking one step up the concrete front walk. Then she turned around and planted a hug on Peter, almost knocking the wind out of him with her element of surprise. "We should see each other again sometime," she said. "Hey, maybe I could have you meet my friends for coffee with me one of these days."

"Really?" Peter asked again. Internally, he cursed himself for having his vocabulary seemingly reduced to that one word.

"Let's just say I wasn't the only one dying to meet the famous Peter Parker," MJ said, pulling away from Peter and smiling up at him.

"I wouldn't exactly say 'famous-'"

"But as far as we're concerned, you are." MJ turned around and retreated into her house, but not before giving Peter a perky wave.

He waved back, smiling nervously, then made his way over to his house. Before he could unlock the front door, however, he heard some muffled sounds emanating from MJ's place. They sounded like raised voices. Two of them. One, clearly MJ's; the other, louder and deeper. Maybe it was her dad? And now that he thought about it, had he even seen her dad, ever? He knew she had one - he'd heard him talk noisily a few times - but as for actually seeing the guy in the flesh, that was a no as far as he could remember.

Peter tiptoed over to the end of the front porch. Why he was tiptoeing, he wasn't sure. It wasn't as if they could hear the faint creaking of the wood under his feet from next door. Then he heard Daddy Watson's voice, very loud and clear: " _You stay away from that creep, you got me?_ "

" _He's not a creep!_ " MJ yelled back.

" _He stays in the house all day, he has no friends, he's nervous as all get-out...that, to me, says he's a creep!_ "

At this point, Peter realized that the "creep" they were talking about was himself. Or was it? There were plenty of borderline shut-ins in this city alone, weren't there?

" _He had a girlfriend,_ " MJ said, clearly trying not to shout. " _A girlfriend who died._ "

 _Well,_  Peter thought.  _There goes that hope._

" _Probably 'cause he raped and killed her,_ " MJ's dad scoffed.

Peter fought to stop himself from slamming his fist on the railing. How dare this guy talk so much smack about him and Gwen? He had no idea what the f-

The porch creaked from the other side. Peter swiveled around just in time to spot a very bizarre intruder - a huge guy wearing a vest and pants patterned in orange and black tiger stripes. In one hand, he held a large net, and in the other, a long and heavy-looking spear, the tip of which had what looked like eyes engraved in its surface.

Automatically, Peter tried to blast this character with his webs - but then he remembered at the last second that his webshooters were safely stored upstairs in his room.

"Missing something?" Tiger Guy laughed. He had a noticeable accent - Russian, not unlike that of Aleksei Sytsevich, but not quite as strong as the Rhino's, either. "I figured you'd be easy prey," he added, "but I never would have guessed you'd be this easy."

"Guess again, furball." Peter leaped into the air, crouched on the railing for a second, then pulled himself on top of the overhang, seemingly to safety. Not quite, though - not after Kraven went and threw his spear through the overhang, narrowly missing Peter's feet.

At least now Peter was able to take hold of the spear - heavy though it was. He then dangled it over the edge of the overhang, calling through the hole, "Come and get it, big guy!" He then pulled his face away from the hole as Tiger Guy aimed his fist at it, subsequently expanding it. "You know," he added, sticking his face near the hole once again, "my aunt doesn't like wild animals."

"Do you always taunt your enemies like this, Spider-Man?" asked Tiger Guy. "It's a wonder they haven't all ganged up on you by now."

Peter was thrown by this - even though Tiger Guy had already implied he knew who he was with those first two words out of his mouth. "How do you-?"

Tiger Guy grabbed the business end of his spear. Before Peter could stop him, he yanked it out of his hand and pulled it down. Then he threw it through the overhang again, this time sending it crashing through a window.

"Are you serious?" Peter yelled at Tiger Guy. "I sleep in there, dude!"

"And that matters to me why?" Tiger Guy asked. Then he grabbed the edge of the overhang and started pulling himself up. Sensing that he stood little chance of being able to take him on hand-to-hand and win, Peter pulled the spear out. He still found it heavy, but he was slowly getting used to the weight, and had no problem leveling it in Tiger Guy's direction with one hand. His other hand, he stuck through the hole in his window. Carefully avoiding the broken glass, he fumbled for the lock on the inside of the window.

The next insult that came into Peter's head, just as he opened his window at last, was a little more historical, but he thought it would be no less effective. "Maybe where you come from," he called out as he climbed through his window and grabbed the two webshooters he'd left in his desk drawer, "they still don't allow private property. But you're in  _my_  country now, buddy!"

"Don't get me started on the goddamn Soviet regime," Tiger Guy growled. Peter had left his window open, allowing his attacker to get in - but that was the idea. No sooner did Tiger Guy set foot on the wood floor of Peter's room than he got a huge amount of web in his face. He then took advantage of Tiger Guy's momentary confusion to further take him by surprise and drop-kick him out the window, back the way he'd come. He didn't go down easily, though - it took three kicks for Peter to get him out the window completely and then lock the window behind him.

He then looked down at the floor, where Tiger Guy's spear was still sitting. Hefting it in one hand again, he carried it downstairs and out the door, leaving it on the lawn for its owner to collect. Which he did as soon as he dismounted from the overhang. He then grabbed his net as well, and pointed the spear at Peter, who tensed in anticipation of an attack that never came.

"No matter," Tiger Guy muttered to himself. "My work here is done anyway. I'm sure by now, someone's already  _called the police!_ " The last three words, he shouted at the top of his lungs, clearly hoping someone in the neighborhood would take the hint.

"Honestly," Peter called after Tiger Guy's retreating form, "why are all my enemies these days such damn zoophiles?"

Tiger Guy let out a loud laugh - which was then instantly cut off as he made the mistake of stepping into MJ's driveway just as she and her motorbike came down it.

Immediately, Peter sprang into action, deploying his webline and launching it in the direction of MJ and Tiger Guy. They were already trying to avoid each other, but it was too late - the front tire of the motorbike ran over Tiger Guy's foot, even as MJ swerved to avoid him and was further pulled away by Peter's webline.

"Oh my God!" MJ cried, jumping off her bike and removing her helmet. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry!"

Tiger Guy pulled his foot out from under the tire, gnashed his teeth at MJ, and stood up on both feet. She and Peter were both shocked to see him able to put weight on his injured foot - and injured it clearly was, because even as he tried to run off, he was noticeably limping.

"Wait, come back!" MJ called out. "I-I gotta take you to-"

"MJ, stop." Peter put his hand on her shoulder and held her back. "Let him go. He'll have to check into a hospital anyway, and by then, the cops will be waiting for him."

"What do you mean?" MJ asked. Then she turned around and saw the damage to Peter's house. "Oh my God, he did that? But...but why?" She looked down at her motorbike, which was sitting on its side, the rear tire still coated with webline that led back to Peter's lawn, and then back again to the webshooter on his wrist. "No. No freaking way!"

Peter cut the webline loose and gathered it up so he could throw it away. "I-I'm sorry I had to reveal it like this," he said. "Just...just get back inside, and call the cops. Tell them someone tried to break into my house." He looked down at the lawn to make sure he'd gotten all the web, then raced back to his house to get his car keys. "And call my aunt, too, so she doesn't hear about this on the radio or something!"

"Why don't you call her yourself?" MJ said. "And why don't we follow him together?"

Peter stopped short in the middle of the lawn, then turned around and said, "No. Absolutely not. I'm not letting anyone else get involved with my stuff. Not after..." He paused, unable to bring himself to say it.

"You got a bike helmet?" MJ asked, pulling her motorbike off the ground so it was once again upright.

"Uh...I have a plain old bike helmet, like...like a plastic one. Why?"

"Get it," MJ said, gesturing vaguely at Peter's backyard. "You can ride with me, and we'll follow him. Together."

"Didn't you hear me? I said no!"

MJ crossed her arms. "I've always wanted to meet Spider-Man, and now that I have, I'm not gonna pass up the opportunity to lend him a hand!"

"You don't understand," Peter said. "I can't let anyone else...this is how Gwen died!"

Awkward silence filled the air between them for a moment, but then MJ asked, "What do you mean?"

"I mean, she died helping me out!" Peter shouted. "Now do you see why I need to do this alone?"

"What I'm seeing," MJ countered, "is that Spider-Man shouldn't have to work alone. You're not Mr. Incredible or Superman or some other moody hero. And if Gwen died helping you out, then she died a hero!" She revved the engine of her motorbike as she turned it on once again, and then said, "Now get your helmet and hop on already - time's a-wastin', Tiger!"

Unable to think of any other arguments against MJ's insistence, Peter swallowed, then ran into the garage to grab his own helmet. He hadn't worn it in years, but by loosening the straps, he was still able to fit it on his head.  _And maybe now my hair will finally lie flat for a second or two_ , he thought.

He then ran back to MJ and sat behind her on the motorbike's seat. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he said, "By the way, I'm sorry I webbed up your tire."

"No worries," she said, revving the motorbike one more time. "Maybe after we're done with all this shit, you can help me clean it up."

With that, she sped off into the street, in the direction where Tiger Guy had gone just a few minutes earlier.


	11. Spiralling

"There," Sherlock said, pointing at one of Mr. Finch's many computer screens. "There's Kravinoff. He's somewhere in Queens." He peered more closely at the feed from that particular security camera. "And he appears to have been injured," he said, noting the awkwardness of the man's gait.

Behind him, Watson looked over his shoulder. "Play it back, please?" she asked. As Mr. Finch obliged her request, she said, "It looks like someone might have run over his foot."

"Yes, perhaps with a small car or a motorcycle." Sherlock stared at the screen as the footage played once again in slow motion. "Whose vehicle, of course, remains to be seen. But we should keep an eye out for our arachnid friend - this is not very far from his residence."

The footage skipped ahead to the current time. While Finch continued to track Kravinoff's limping on-foot progress, Sherlock turned to Reese (who had just entered the train car) and said, "Perhaps you or the other attack dog could go out and fetch the hunter, hmm?"

The large Belgian Malinois patrolling the platform outside seemed to have heard Sherlock's words. He stopped in front of the door just before it closed and growled softly. Softly, but it still rumbled all around them.

"I'll go out on a limb and assume the 'other attack dog' isn't Bear," Reese said. "Unfortunately, Shaw can't go out as often as any of us would like."

"Guys!" Watson tapped a screen, the same one on which Sherlock had spotted Kravinoff mere minutes earlier. "Is that Peter?"

Finch once again reversed the tape, and Sherlock got a closer look at a motorcycle carrying two passengers. The one in the back was Peter Parker - the footage was grainy, especially given how fast the bike and its passengers were moving, but Sherlock could still discern his face.

"And who's Mr. Parker's copilot?" he asked.

Had Finch and Root been competing to see who could have answered Sherlock's question sooner, Root would have won, no contest. She had the answer after only fifteen seconds of hacker black magic. "Mary Jane Watson," she said, pulling up the driver's license photo of a girl with auburn hair. Irish, Sherlock guessed, based on her hair and very fair skin.

"No relation, I trust?" Shaw asked, nodding to Watson.

Pressing on, Root said, "She's nineteen years old, has a couple of small modeling gigs under her belt, and...huh. Refresh my memory - what's Peter's address?" When Finch gave it to her - not that she'd forgotten it for real - she grinned. "She's his next-door neighbor too."

"Do you think she's aware of his secret identity?" asked Reese.

"I doubt it," Sherlock said. "You weren't there when we first met him in costume,  _Detective._  He's very secretive, and very reluctant to break character, such as it were."

"Respect the badge,  _mate,_ " Reese joked. "I don't have the authority to arrest you - but Detective John Riley does."

"Your multiple identities don't scare me," Sherlock said. He pulled out his phone and was about to dial Peter's number when Root nudged him in the side, offering him an earwig just like the ones she and the rest of her people wore.

"I'll connect it to your phone for you," she said, still holding out her hand even as Sherlock pressed the earwig into place.

Handing his phone to Root, he said, "I feel like I've just signed a binding contract with Lucifer himself."

Snickering, Root asked, "Do you even believe in Lucifer?"

"One does not need to believe in a holy - or, in this case,  _un_ holy - being in order to invoke his or her name." Sherlock looked down at Root, continuing to suspect the worst.

"Ye heathen." Root returned Sherlock's phone, then went to Watson with another earwig.

Assuming the earwig worked in much the same way as a typical Bluetooth earpiece, Sherlock simply dialed Peter's number. To his surprise, his call didn't just go to voicemail - Peter actually answered. It was difficult for either of them to hear, however, with the noise of Mary Jane's motorcycle engine whining in the background.

"Mr. Parker, are you following Kravinoff?" Sherlock asked.

" _Uh...we're kinda trying to!_ " Peter yelled. " _We're totally guessing where he must be going, though!_ "

Inside his head, Sherlock imagined a map of Queens, and placed a Google Maps-style red pin on the spot where Kravinoff was just seen. Extrapolating the Russian's known path, he deduced that he must be headed for... "Get to the Queensborough Bridge!" he ordered.

" _What?_ " Peter didn't seem to believe what he'd just heard. " _No way! This furry guy can't get that far, not after we ran over his foot!_ "

" _Excuse me?_ " This second voice, while faint, was clearly that of Peter's female traveling companion. " _Don't take the credit - that was all me!_ "

" _I said 'we..._ '"

Returning his attention to the people in the lab, Sherlock asked, "What's Kravinoff's status?"

"We just lost him," Finch said. "Give me a second, I'll get to another camera."

"Unless he's out of visual range," Root said. "Which likely wouldn't be for too long. I doubt this guy knows the Dark Map like I do."

Sherlock could only guess what the "Dark Map," which Root had already mentioned several times before, must be. The most likely possibility he could think of was that it was a set of camera blindspots. Once again, he asked himself just how these people could tap into every security camera in the city at the touch of a button. This seemed like something out of the government's bag of tricks - and also something that could easily fall victim to the likes of Everyone, fsociety, etc. And yet, if these people were truly government, would they need to do business in such a covert, clandestine fashion? In Sherlock's experience, the only people more secretive than the government were those who worked against it. For ostensible anarchists, though, they were remarkably far from insurgent in their behavior.

"I think you might be right," Shaw said, pulling up another camera view on a tablet. "He's not really doing a good job of staying hidden, is he?"

This new angle showed Kravinoff using the butt of his spear to smash a car's window before opening its door and climbing in. It seemed he knew his way around a car - enough to hot-wire it, at least. Alfredo Llamosa would probably take his hat off to him. Almost comically, the unlucky victim of this carjacking ran out of a nearby building just two seconds before Kravinoff drove his car away. He then just stood there in the middle of the street, frozen and dumbstruck. Other cars were forced to steer around him, threading the needle in a newly created narrow gap between him and the cars parked on either side of the road. All this ended, however, when a large Escalade came up to this point, and its driver wisely opted to not risk his ride's glossy black paint or idiotically spinning chrome rims. Unfortunately, the driver behind him, who was behind the wheel of a bug-sized Miata, was too impatient to wait, and tried to get around the obstacles by driving into the opposite side of the road. He failed to see a minivan coming to a stop just like the Escalade, and thus plowed straight into it, crumpling his roadster into a giant crushed beer can. The man whose car was stolen cried out in fear and jumped aside, almost colliding with the Escalade's hood in the process before staggering back to the sidewalk.

All this happened in the span of twenty seconds.

"Er...Mr. Parker?" Sherlock asked. "Change of plans - you'll want to detour onto 495."

" _Yeah, I can see a hell of a lot of traffic ahead,_ " Peter said. The noise of the bike was fading away as it slowed down. " _Should we still try to get to the Queensborough Bridge?_ "

"Yes," Sherlock said. "It's the most direct path from Queens to Oscorp Tower."

"How can we be sure he works for Oscorp?" Reese asked.

"I agree," Watson said, fitting her earwig into place and tapping into the call between Sherlock and Peter. "Peter is Oscorp's target, so it makes sense that anyone who goes after him, they're bankrolling them."

In the background, Peter was presumably covering the mouthpiece of his phone, as they could hear his muffled voice giving directions to Mary Jane - or "MJ," as he called her. A little familiarity, which made sense since they were neighbors. Sherlock, however, had gotten the impression that Peter was a loner, due to his considerable social awkwardness - although that was largely attributable to the fact that, every time he'd met Peter thus far, he'd been surrounded by people he barely knew. He could almost understand now why he took on the Spider-Man persona. Although he had yet to well and truly wrap his mind around the more fantastical aspects, he could see how hiding behind a mask helped make Peter more articulate and witty, despite Spider-Man's tendency to hide in the shadows.

" _We're gonna have to probably break a few speed limits!_ " Peter yelled as the motorcycle revved up and, according to a traffic camera just accessed by Finch, took off onto the freeway.

"I'll be sure to wipe any tickets from your records, kids," Reese said.

" _Who are these people?_ " Mary Jane called back to Peter.

As Peter proceeded to explain who his friends were (giving only the bare minimum of necessary details), Sherlock and Watson turned their attention to the series of traffic cams along Queens Boulevard. Finch called them up in quick succession to continuously track Kravinoff. The current chase had begun in Forest Hills - Peter and Mary Jane's neighborhood - but had now progressed to Elmhurst. Only Sunnyside and Astoria separated Kravinoff from the bridge.

Meanwhile, Reese stepped out of the lab for a moment to make a phone call of his own. When he returned, he said, "Fusco's gonna set up a roadblock at 60th Street and 5th Avenue. You better be right about the Oscorp thing," he added with stern looks to both Sherlock and Watson, "otherwise we're all gonna look like a bunch of fools for causing a traffic jam on the bridge."

"I doubt that," Sherlock muttered.

Within a minute, Peter and Mary Jane had returned to Queens Boulevard, and were now only about two hundred feet behind Kravinoff. He was still on that same trajectory, not stopping for any traffic lights or string of slowed-down cars. It was a wonder he could navigate his stolen automobile so well, though. Not only would his injured right foot (as Sherlock had noted while seeing him limp out of Forest Hills) interfere with his ability to use the pedals, but the car itself was a large, unwieldy nineties-model Buick.

Unfortunately, Reese soon got a call back from his friend Fusco, and he was frowning the whole time. Finally, after hanging up, he said, "Fusco wasn't able to arrange the roadblock."

"Are you serious?" Shaw groused.

Root, however, seemed delighted. "Don't look so disappointed, Sameen." She came up behind her and stroked her hair for a second, causing Shaw to shudder visibly. "You might get to see some more action today. And, even better, you're coming with me!"

"Dare I ask what you plan to do to Kravinoff?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Root.

"You may," Shaw said, grabbing a long and fearsome-looking assault rifle from a locked closet in the far corner, "but you wouldn't like the answer."

"Try me."

On her way out as Shaw passed her the rifle and took another for herself, Root grinned at Sherlock and said, "You'll just have to wait and see."

And wait and see they did - not that they had any other choice. As Shaw and Root made their way over to that intersection at the bottom corner of Central Park, Peter asked, " _Are we just gonna keep on chasing this guy into oblivion? Not that I have anything better to do today, but..._ "

" _We'll stop him,_ " Root said. Sherlock actually recoiled for a second as her high voice broke into the call - why did she have such a bad habit of popping in so unexpectedly? " _Don't worry your big fuzzy head, Petey. We're professionals._ "

" _Hah! Says you, sweet cheeks!_ "

"Who was that?" Sherlock exchanged glances with Watson, who shrugged as she also failed to recognize the slightly nasal male voice which had just intruded on their call as Root had.

However, in this case, this intrusion was not part of Root's plan. " _Who the hell are you?_ " she asked.

" _Just a figment of some dumbass writer's imagination,_ " the strange man said. " _And yes, in case you weren't aware - which, being normal, you probably weren't - we're all fictional characters, people! But more on that later. Right now, I gotta hunt the hunter. Kraven, come to daddy!_ "

Watson turned to Finch and asked, "Are you tracing this?"

"He's not even trying to hide his location," Finch reported. "No satellite or IP-address bouncing or anything like that. GPS tracking places him at..." He gasped as the location came in. "60th and 5th? But that's where we were hoping to intercept Kravinoff. How'd he know...?"

" _Bingo,_ " said the man. " _I knew you guys had some serious techno-mojo-jojo shit, but man, did I overestimate how long it'd take you to track me down or what?_ " A soft grunt came through everyone's earwigs, and he added, " _I'm normally a million times better at close quarters, but I just scored myself a rocket launcher...I couldn't resist!_ "

"Root! Shaw!" Reese loaded a fresh clip into his handgun. "Get out of there! Rendezvous back at base!"

"Mr. Parker?" Sherlock asked. "Are you still on?"

" _Yeah, and I've heard everything, I'm afraid,_ " Peter said. " _You want us to stop following Kraven?_ "

"I would advise it, yes."

" _All right, then._ " Peter audibly sucked air through his teeth. " _MJ, pull over and go home. I'll take it from here._ "

"What?" Sherlock and Mary Jane yelled simultaneously.

" _Three...two...one...fire!_ " The latest addition to this conversation let out a loud whoop of laughter as the sound of an RPG firing filtered over the multi-way call. Two seconds later, Kravinoff's stolen car exploded halfway between 5th Avenue and the bridge, according to the camera feeds.

"Root? Shaw? Report!" Reese barked, his military background coming out more strongly in his sharp commands.

" _We're fine,_ " Root said. " _We're nowhere near the blast._ "

" _Who did it?_ " Shaw asked. " _That's what I'd like to know._ "

More laughter, then the stranger said, " _You fine young cannibals can call me...Deadpool. Ta-ta for now, bitches!_ "

" _Great,_ " Peter groaned. " _Another bad guy for the list._ "

" _P.S._ " Deadpool said, " _I'm not really a bad guy. I just play an unusually adorable one in the movies. Coming Feb. 2016 to a theater near you!_ "

There was a faint click, indicating that someone had signed off the call. Then there was a second. "Was that you, Root?" Reese asked.

" _We're still on the line,_ " Root said.

Shaw cleared her throat. " _So...where's this Deadpool?_ "

"And more importantly," Sherlock asked, "where's Peter Parker?"

He gave no answer. Could he? Would he? It was only another layer to an already dense, complicated mystery.


	12. All That You Slight, And Everyone You Fight

"What the hell?" Peter watched Kraven's ride explode as it was hit by an RPG, only for its tiger-pantsed driver to crawl out of it two seconds later and dust himself off like nothing had happened. He was, however, still limping from having had his foot run over earlier.

" _Peter Parker? Come in, Peter! Where are you?_ " Sherlock barked from wherever he was holed up. Probably with Reese and Root and their friends.

Tapping his ear, Peter said, "I'm here. I'm about a block east of the explosion site. What the hell was that for, huh?"

" _We didn't sanction this,_ " said Root. " _We don't know who this Deadpool character is._ "

"I dunno what's going on," MJ said, pointing down the street, "but you realize this Russian dude's getting away, right?"

Peter sighed through his nose before repositioning himself behind MJ on the motorbike's seat. "Sorry, Sherlock," he said. "I think we're gonna keep following this guy."

"You're not gonna tell me to go back home again?" MJ asked, revving the engine before slowly accelerating from the dead stop they'd been stuck at.

"Like you're gonna do that anyway," Peter said, grinning at MJ behind her back.

" _And I suppose you kids are gonna follow Kraven into Oscorp too?_ " asked the sharp voice of the other woman on Root's team. Shaw, Peter believed her name was.

"Maybe not," Peter said. "I've already been in there once today. That's one time too many for me these days."

"So let me get this straight," MJ said, piloting the motorbike past the scene of twisted, burning wreckage that used to be a Buick LeSabre. "You're Spider-Man, Oscorp is your mortal enemy, and you've got some kind of private army on your side? I thought Spider-Man was a one-man army all on his own."

"I was," Peter said, "but now I've got more than just supervillains taking an interest in my life."

" _But we're a little too morally ambiguous to be quote-unquote 'superheroes,_ '" Root said.

Peter rolled his eyes, grateful that MJ couldn't see him. Why couldn't she be in on the full conversation too? Then again, it was hard enough for him to hold on to her and keep the phone to his ear, even with his reflexes as enhanced as they were. He had an idea - putting the phone on speaker, holding it between them, and hoping that MJ would be able to hear the conversation that way. But then he factored in the road noise, not to mention the fact that MJ's helmet would further muffle any sound from outside. So, best to give it a miss. For now.

" _Just keep following Kraven at least until we're sure he's going into Oscorp,_ " said Reese. " _Then report to our current location. You remember where that is, right?_ "

Relaying this instruction to MJ, Peter added, in a snarky tone (mostly for her benefit), "I suppose you guys are hidden in some kind of abandoned subway station or something?"

The resulting three seconds of silence were strangely chilling. " _How'd you guess?_ " asked Sherlock.

"I was just joking," Peter said, deciding to save the explanation for later. "You guys really do work in an aband-"

" _Just keep following Kraven_ ," Reese interrupted him. " _And keep us posted if there's any deviation in his path. Where is he, anyway? Finch, can you find him?_ "

"He's just walking," Peter said. "I mean, we can easily catch up to him, but..."

" _No, hang back,_ " said Shaw. " _If he senses you're following him, he'll try and lose you. And none of your are professionals, so I imagine your tailing skills, like those of Holmes and Watson, leave a little to be desired._ "

" _It's a bit of a learning curve,_ " Watson commented.

MJ brought the motorbike to a halt as the next traffic light turned red. "They seriously expect us to follow this guy at a snail's pace?" she asked, shaking her head. "I'm normally such a speed demon on this baby."

" _Yes,_ " Finch said, followed by a series of faint computerized bleeps. " _And she's got the traffic tickets to prove it._ "

Ten minutes went by, and Kraven continued on his path, with no deviation whatsoever. Other than the moment when one good-hearted man saw Kraven coming, clearly injured, and left his espresso cup on his outdoor table so he could try and help. Instead, Kraven rebuffed him, and quite violently too, pushing him to the ground and making him land flat on his ass. In response, Peter used his webline to help the other guy back to his feet, firing it from a considerable distance so nobody would see him unmasked.

"You've had a while to practice this superhero thing, haven't you?" asked MJ as she watched Peter detach his webline and let it stay with the guy he'd just saved.

"Call it a souvenir from your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man!" he said as he and MJ passed the guy by.

" _Aren't you worried that the police are gonna find that and trace it back to you?_ " asked Sherlock.

Peter decided to answer MJ's question first. "I've been doing this for about a year and a half now," he said. "I was bitten in November 2013 - junior year."

"You got this from a bite?" MJ asked. "What, like a werewolf?"

Peter snickered. "Yeah, sure, I'm a werespider. No, it was more like...Oscorp had these genetically-enhanced spiders, which my dad helped them develop. But then he found out they were planning to use them to make weapons, so he sabotaged the experiment, hid his research, and then tried to go into hiding."

"What do you mean,  _tried?_ "

He swallowed. He could never get used to talking about the deaths in his past, even those he didn't remember. Invariably, doing so would make him cry like a baby. That happened when he'd first told Gwen. And also when he'd confided in an equally friendly neighborhood superhero from Central City, California.

"I'll tell you more about it later," Peter said.

It wasn't long until they came within two blocks of Oscorp Tower - close enough to watch Kraven walk in through the front door. After that, Peter directed MJ to the place where he remembered entering the subway with Reese, Felicia, and Root.

"Good for you," Root said as she arrived at that spot seconds later, along with a dark, Middle Eastern-looking woman, whom Peter presumed to be Shaw. "You're keeping to the Dark Map." She noticed Peter and MJ looking at her companion, and introduced her to them, confirming her identity as Sameen Shaw.

"It's total coincidence that we have nearly identical first names, I promise," Shaw said, gesturing to Root.

"Honey, you say that like you  _want_  to put some distance between us," Root said, pouting.

MJ chuckled at this exchange. "Are you two, um...?"

"No!" Shaw said, a little too quickly. "God, no. Not that Root doesn't wanna be, but..."

"We don't mind if you are, though," Peter said, climbing through the vending-machine secret door after the ladies had gone inside. "Right, MJ?"

"No, no, of course not," MJ said. "Hell, we shouldn't even have to say we don't mind - you two should just take it for granted that it's okay-"

"All right, enough," Shaw said, holding up her hand and speaking over MJ. "Root and I aren't together, so shut your young shippers' brains down for the moment, okay?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah, sure, we get it." Behind Shaw's back, however, he and MJ winked at each other, and Root got in on the game as well.

Soon, the foursome found their way through the tunnel to the secret platform, where Watson, Bear, and Reese waited to greet them. Finch and Sherlock remained inside the subway car, undoubtedly doing further research.

Immediately, MJ got on her knees and approached Bear, saying, "Aww, what a cute doggie!"

Bear let out a deep growl, but soon relented and allowed MJ to pet his head. He sniffed her a few times, then gave her a quick lick on the cheek.

"He really does like you," Reese laughed as MJ wiped her face.

"Think of it this way," said Watson. "He's preparing you to be constantly under our watchful eyes as long as you're with us." She turned to look at the subway car. "Especially Sherlock's."

MJ looked up while Bear buried his nose in her shoulder for a moment. "Could you forgive me for feeling a bit skeeved by that comment?"

"I didn't mean for it to come out that way," said Watson. "I'm Joan Watson, by the way. No relation, I don't think."

"Probably not," MJ said, shaking her hand. Reese introduced himself as well, and then Sherlock emerged from the subway car, carrying an open Macbook in one hand.

"You might want to see this," he said, his voice echoing throughout the mostly empty space around them. "My brother's one-armed look-alike just broke into the airwaves."

Peter looked up, feeling a sharp sense of foreboding. "You mean Dr. Connors?"

"That's right," said Sherlock. "Here, look..." He turned the Macbook around so everyone else could see the screen as he brought it out.

On screen sat Connors in a white jumpsuit ( _No straitjacket?_  Peter thought.  _Wasn't he supposed to be in Ravencroft?_ ), looking pale and drawn and underfed, even more so than Mycroft Holmes. " _I don't know how long I'll have to say this,_ " he said, his eyes darting to his left a couple of times, " _so I'll be brief. I know that Spider-Man is innocent. He may have witnessed the death of Gwen Stacy, but the real perpetrator is already incarcerated. The NYPD needs to end their manhunt_ -"

Static cut in over Connors' face, and the camera cut to a puzzled-looking newscaster who said, "Well...that was strange."

"You think that was our Max-Headroom-in-Chicago moment?" asked his female news-desk partner.

"That wasn't strange enough," the male newscaster said with an awkward, stilted laugh.

"He's right, though," Peter said. "That was very strange. Why would Oscorp allow Connors to sit in front of a camera and hijack the local news?"

"I agree," Watson said, scratching her head.

"It seems to be running completely counter to the company's plans as we know them," Sherlock said, closing the Macbook.

"Maybe Oscorp's just trying to lure you out of hiding?" MJ suggested, looking meaningfully at Peter.

"It's as good a theory as any," Shaw said.

"Now how do we combat this hypothetical next stage in Oscorp's war on Spider-Man?" Sherlock asked. He stood back, holding the Macbook in front of his stomach and looking freakishly serene, like he was meditating while standing.

"You probably have an idea and are just waiting to see if any of us are operating on your wavelength, aren't you?" Peter asked.

"Why, do you have a suggestion?"

Peter turned to Reese. "You moonlight as a detective, right?"

Reese failed to stifle a chuckle. "I-I wouldn't exactly call it that, but-"

"There we go," Peter said. "We need to talk to a cop we can trust. Preferably one who's influential enough to do something about the department's little wild-goose chase."

"You make it sound like I've got more pull than I really do," Reese said with another chuckle. And was that a faint blush Peter detected as well?

"You've gotta know a guy somewhere," Peter said. "Isn't that how it always works? I mean, you know Finch."

"You mean the man who's currently appropriating my social-media sock puppets to spread anti-disinformation to clear your name in the court of public opinion?" Sherlock asked.

Peter gaped at him. "Really? Wow. Well, whenever he gets out of his tech cave, could you tell him I said thanks, if I'm not still here to do it myself?"

"I'll do it," MJ said, raising her hand. "This Finch guy doesn't bite, does he?"

"Don't worry," Root laughed. "No biting from Finch. That's my job anyway."

Watson cleared her throat rather than laugh along with Root's joke like everyone else. "If you don't know anyone, Reese, that's okay," she said. "Because I can take you to a detective in Brooklyn."

"The one you said you and Holmes consult with?" Reese asked. "Grayson, right?"

"Gregson, actually," Sherlock said. "Perhaps Watson and I should take you to him. It couldn't hurt, hmm?"

"I have another idea," Reese said. "Peter, you're the unofficial Spider-Man photographer, right? Do you have any photos you haven't published yet?"

Peter was quick to clarify Reese's misconception. "I don't publish them. I sell them to the  _Daily Bugle._  J. Jonah Jameson's always ready and willing to use them as evidence in favor of his boneheaded anti-Spidey agenda, but he pays me rock-bottom prices. So I send him the pictures very slowly, 'cause I'm thinking he might offer more if I tantalize him enough."

"Anything to make money, right?" MJ asked with a shrug.

Peter chewed his lip for a second. "Uh...yeah. I have tuition to pay for. I need the dough."

"Understandable," Reese said. He approached the exit and turned around to give a list of orders. "Root, look into that Deadpool character, try and get a lead on him. Shaw, MJ, help where you can."

"How 'bout I take her to the shooting range?" Shaw asked.

MJ's eyes widened, and Peter could feel his own eyes doing likewise. "You have a shooting range?" she asked.

"Back in the surface world," Shaw said, pointing a hitchhiker's thumb at the ceiling. "It's only a block away, so Samaritan can't catch me. Go another block the other way and you'll find a boxing gym. Pick your poison."

MJ weighed her hands for a moment before saying, "Boxing gym, then." She clenched her fists, then relaxed. She must really have been itching to get started.

"Sounds like a plan," Reese said. He was about to leave the platform, but then he turned around and whistled for Bear, to whom he said a short, clipped sentence in Dutch.

"What'd you say?" Root asked, raising her eyebrow.

"I told him to consider you a good chew toy if you deviated from the task I assigned you," Reese said with a smirk.

Root grinned back, Grinch-style. "I call bull-" She stopped short when Bear growled at her, seemingly confirming what Reese had said.

" _Zeer goed,_ " Reese said, patting Bear's head. "Okay, let's go. Watson, Holmes, you know the way, so you lead and Peter and I will follow." 


	13. New Number

Before stopping at the Brooklyn precinct where Holmes and Watson's cop contact held sway, Reese obliged Peter's request to swing by his place and let him grab his camera and photos. Unexpectedly, Peter also came out of his house wearing a pair of square horn-rimmed glasses, even bigger than Finch's.

"Hipster glasses?" asked Holmes.

"They were my dad's," Peter says. "I wear contacts by default, but sometimes, I wear these instead. Like, if I need a little luck on my side."

Reese pursed his lips. Earlier, he'd overheard Peter talk briefly about his parents being long dead. Poor kid. Never mind the fact that he was, technically, no longer a kid (according to his records, Peter was three months shy of his nineteenth birthday). Reese had always had a soft spot for orphans, especially those who'd fought long and hard to rise above and prove themselves.

"To the precinct, then?" he asked Watson.

She fired up the ignition of the car they were borrowing from Finch's garage. "Yes. In twenty minutes, if the traffic is on our side."

The traffic was, thankfully, on their side, because the way down to the precinct from Peter's Queens home didn't pass through the ongoing disaster zone that had been Kraven's route into Manhattan. While Watson drove, Holmes called ahead to Captain Gregson, announcing their imminent arrival. "We've got another detective from Manhattan with us," he said, "one who believes in Spider-Man's innocence." He scratched his head, then added, "Yes, we have evidence, courtesy of a certain young civilian." There was a long, long beat, then Holmes said as blithely as possible, "No, no, he's not Spider-Man. Not for real."

Reese raised his eyebrows and struggled to keep himself from laughing. If Holmes was this good at lying, could he really trust him? At least Watson came across as an honest woman, and even better, she was every bit a master of the sarcastic arts as any of the men in the car. For proof, Reese could look no further than her response to Sherlock's lies to the captain: "Not with those Clark Kent glasses, he's not."

Not missing a beat, Peter leaned forward and whispered, "That's why I used prescription sunglasses to make the lenses for my mask."

"And besides," Reese pointed out, "as a cash-strapped college student, nobody would buy that you were ever able to afford the supplies to build that suit." As the idea really took root in his mind, he went on to ask, "How _did_ you afford it, anyway?"

"Are my financial records not in my dossier?" Peter asked. "Or does your friend Finch just not share those?"

"Nothing to hide, I hope?" Reese asked.

Peter shook his head. "I just had a contact in Oscorp who was willing to sell me supplies for dirt-cheap. He doesn't work there anymore, though."

Reese smelled bullshit, but he decided not to pursue the matter any further. Peter was a fellow vigilante, after all, and as Spider-Man, he'd already done more than enough to show a strong moral streak.

Upon arriving at the precinct, Watson led everyone else up to Gregson's office. Reese saw no signs that this man was anything like the corrupt HR-type cops he'd dealt with before. "So, Detective Riley," Gregson said after all the introductions were made, "let's see if you can convince me of Spider-Man's innocence."

Reese extracted his phone from his pocket and checked the notifications. He was expecting an email from Finch any minute, but it hadn't come in yet. In any case, he started outlining the team's "theory" - which, to them, it wasn't, because they believed it to be the truth. "The people accusing Spider-Man of killing Gwen Stacy are using circumstantial evidence alone to make their case," he said. "While Spider-Man _was_ at the scene, I've got video evidence that someone else was responsible for her death."

"Show me," Gregson said.

"That's gonna be a bit of a problem," Reese said. "My...my CI isn't delivering on the goods like he said he would." He resisted the urge to direct this comment to the nearest security camera, and by extension, to Finch. "However, that's why we brought our young friend along."

"The photographer?" Gregson leaned forward so he could get a better glimpse of Peter, who was hanging around near the door, as was Holmes.

Peter stepped forward for the first time since he'd entered the office and took off his backpack. As he extracted his photos from inside it, he accidentally-on-purpose bumped into the stack of papers next to Gregson's desktop, which came dangerously close to falling over. Reese was forced to catch them before they hit the floor.

"So sorry," Peter said with a sheepish smile. "I-I'm all thumbs today. Too much caffeine."

"I'm sure you don't overdo it as much as some of my people," Gregson said. "Ever since this one store a block away started copying this 'Flash' super-espresso from Central City-"

Peter laughed out loud. "Sorry," he said when everyone looked at him sharply. "It's just...the Flash. I'm a fan. I almost went to college out there just so I could photograph him, but..."

Reese had to wonder if that meant Peter knew The Flash as well. Finch had never been too big on keeping up with the stories of Spider-Man or the Avengers or any of those types of larger-than-life heroes, but he himself was often very curious. Especially because Fusco often talked about Spider-Man (of whom his son was a fan) on the job. Surely superheroes had conventions, conferences, that sort of thing? Like any other real-world job?

This subject wasn't germane to the current conversation, however. So Reese simply refocused back on Gregson's stimulant-related small talk, which certainly seemed to keep Peter focused enough to stop him from getting clumsy again. "...I mean, really?" he asked. "Quadruple espresso? And people drink them like they're water."

"It's like the next cinnamon challenge," Peter said with a pronounced shudder. "And...here we go." He finally laid down a series of photos, taken at high angles, showing Spider-Man doing his usual crime-fighting thing.

"These haven't been released yet?" Gregson asked.

"Freshly developed just yesterday," Peter said.

Gregson whistled appreciatively. "And I thought film was dead."

"It's more honest than digital," Peter said, his cheekbones flushing slightly all over again. "Not to, uh, sound like a hipster, but..."

Holmes shrugged, turning his shoulders inward a bit. "I'll never hear the end of my use of that particular slur, will I?"

"No, probably not," Reese said under his breath. He checked his email again - still nothing from Finch. Not for another three seconds, anyway. "Got it," he said. "Would you like me to email you the video, Captain Gregson?"

"Please." Gregson handed him a card with all his contact info printed on it.

Reese opened the email and got ready to forward it, but first, he read through the complete text. He then decided, instead, to download the video to his phone and send it to Gregson from there in a separate email. As for Finch's original message, Reese read it while Gregson opened the email on his desktop and watched the video. He had no reason to see the video - he already knew it to contain security footage at the Oscorp power plant where Gwen Stacy had died.

" _We've got a name for our friend in red,_ " Finch said. " _'Deadpool' was born Wade Wilson. No number, though - he's a Canadian national, but he was supposedly pursuing dual citizenship before he apparently died a year ago._ "

Reese would have come up with any number of snarky comments in response, but not in mixed company. Instead, he caught Peter's eye and gestured to him with his head. Peter came up behind him and read the email as well. When he was done, he shook his head.

"This is...compelling," Gregson said when he came to the end of the video. "We don't get to see who dealt the actual death blow, though?"

"No, but young Mr. Osborn certainly appears guilty," said Holmes, "by reason of chemically-induced insanity at the very least."

A young black man - not as adolescent as Peter, but still young relative to Reese, maybe late twenties - knocked on the door. "Come in," Gregson said. When the newcomer walked in, Gregson introduced him to Reese and Peter as Detective Marcus Bell.

"I've heard the stories," Bell said as he shook Reese's hand.

"Not to sound clichéd," Reese remarked, "but you haven't heard the half of it."

"And you," Bell said, turning to Peter. "I've seen your name attached to all the _Daily Bugle_ photos of Spider-Man. I gotta say, you're exactly how I pictured you."

Peter laughed lightly. "Jameson gives me credit after all? Who would've thought."

Gregson folded his hands on the table. "Unlike you, Mr. Parker, Detective Bell doesn't share your fair-minded opinion of Spider-Man."

"Hey, but I think he's getting a bad rap with this whole Oscorp deal," Bell said. _Good_ , Reese thought. _He might not be such a lost cause after all._ "That's actually what I came here to tell you, Captain. I just got word from one of my counterparts in Queens - they're raiding this old abandoned warehouse where Spider-Man's been seen."

Reese watched as Peter's jaw tightened subtly.

"Is that where he's hiding?" Gregson asked.

"There's eyewitnesses who say they've seen him go in and out of that building a bunch of times," Bell said. "Here, look at these photos..." He presented the room at large with pictures on his phone, in which heavy chains hung from a high ceiling and various Spider-Man-related graffiti marked the walls.

"Nice style," Peter said wryly.

"It's not helping his case much, is it?" Watson asked.

Another cop, a uniformed officer, ran up to the open door and stuck her head out from behind Bell. "Captain, you might wanna come see this," she said, jerking her thumb behind her.

Everyone left Gregson's office and joined the gathering of cops in front of the nearest TV. The Breaking News banner was blaring, and then the news reporter played what looked like a body-cam view of the same warehouse Bell had just shown them.

The camera shook, and its owner, along with several other cops, was barking orders and urgent requests for backup. When the camera finally slowed down enough for anyone to get a glimpse of what was happening, Reese caught a glimpse of something else out of a comic book. Descending on the cops was a bald man in a freakishly realistic wingsuit. Realistic in that it looked like actual feathers, even though Reese knew, somehow, that it was entirely mechanical.

"Who is that?" Holmes asked. He looked like he was trying not to come across as anything but indifferent, and yet, his eyes were as wide as those of anyone else in the room.

"It looks like something Oscorp-related," Peter said. "I-I think I saw them display a wingsuit just like that at the Stark Expo."

"'Stark Expo?'" Reese repeated.

"That was five years ago," said Watson. "You were there too?"

"That was back when science was my thing," Peter said. "I got into photography not long after that, though. I kinda needed a change of image."

"I don't remember Oscorp ever being part of the Stark Expo," said Bell.

"Oh, they were there," Peter said, a little too quickly. "Trust me."

On screen, the cop bellowed, " _Who are you?_ " at the man in the wingsuit.

He gave no response, other than beating his wings and rising into the air. Then he swooped down, his wings extending low and colliding with two other cops before they could react.

" _SHIT!_ " the cop cried. He dove to the ground, but not quickly enough. The end of the attacker's wing came into view for a split second before hitting the cop, sending him sprawling backwards and falling on his back. The camera stayed pointed straight up as the winged man continued flying around overhead, circling like some kind of giant vulture.

"Yeah," Reese muttered to himself. "Definitely Oscorp."

Peter overheard him and added, "No shit."


	14. It's All Right 'Cause I'm With Friends

It killed Peter that he couldn't just give these Brooklyn cops much-needed advice on how to deal with this new Oscorp-based threat. He recognized the wingsuit not from the Stark Expo, but from the basement of Oscorp Tower, where he'd seen it along with...had he seen Kraven's spear down there too? Perhaps. For sure, he knew there was the Goblin, the Rhino, this Birdman thing...and a multi-tentacled armor suit of some kind. He struggled not to laugh as creepy thoughts of robotic tentacle porn came to mind.

Still, it wasn't as if he was a supervillain expert. Each one he'd faced so far had brought something new to the table, something he would have to figure out a different way to defeat. Brute force was a significant factor each time, but it wasn't the only one. One couldn't be a well-rounded superhero by brawn alone. He wasn't, the Flash wasn't, Iron Man certainly wasn't...

"Peter?" Reese snapped his fingers in his direction. "Peter, wake up."

"Huh? What?" He looked up to see Gregson and Bell peering at him with concern.

Bell took a quick look back at the screen, where the Birdman (Peter had no idea what else to call him in his head) was busy flapping away, receding into the distance and out of view of the now-stationary body cam. "What makes you say this is Oscorp?" he asked.

"I, uh...I saw the logo," Peter said. "It flashed up for, uh, maybe a second? But I saw it. I know it pretty well." He swallowed nervously. "My dad worked there when...when he was alive." His lip trembled. This wasn't any acting job on his part. He could never think about his parents without wanting to break down crying. And he didn't think he ever would. Aunt May always told him his greatest strength and greatest weakness were one and the same - his heart.

Bell turned the video feed back in time until Peter told him to freeze the frame. Sure enough, there it was - he hadn't lied when he saw the Oscorp logo flash up on the Birdman's wing.

"It's blurry," Gregson said, "but yeah, that's it. Good eyes you've got, Peter."

Peter adjusted his glasses. "Just gotta pretend I'm Harry Potter sometimes," he laughed. "And...yeah, I know it's blurry, b-but all freeze-frames are like that. I've got a talent for, uh, always doing it at the right moment to show people's eyes half-closed. So does my aunt. I've seen sleepy-looking Judge Judy on the living-room TV more times than I care to admit."

"Okay," Bell said, rubbing his hands together. "So...Oscorp's got another runaway experiment on their hands. Either they have the crappiest security in that tower of theirs, or-"

"Or they're releasing these tools of tomorrow's warfare on purpose," said Sherlock. "Which I would've thought was obvious."

Bell snorted. "Yeah, well, forgive me for not being quite so trusting of Spider-Man."

Reese cocked his head. "What did he ever do to you?"

"Nothing," Bell said. "Not personally. But I worked hard for this job, and the thought of someone just taking the law into his own hands...it galls me, you know? Maybe more than it should, I admit, but still..."

"Hey, man, I didn't like him at first either," Peter said. His lie made him smile. "Then I realized just how much he was helping people, and from there I figured out how to get pictures of him in action."

"Helping people is one thing," said Bell, "but-"

Gregson cleared his throat. "We can debate this later. Right now, we need to figure out where Spider-Man is, and maybe get him to help us out."

"I-I-I thought he was wanted?" asked Peter.

"I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt," said Gregson.

"Capital idea, Captain," said Sherlock.

Watson nodded her approval as well, then said, "He's no killer. I'm sure of it. People look up to him. It would take a special kind of sociopath to build up society's hope like that, only to bring it crashing down by killing someone."

"Don't know too many of those, do we?" Peter asked.

"Nope. No, definitely not."

Peter was the only one who reacted to these words, because he was the only one able to see the one who'd spoken them. He merely glanced in the direction of Gwen's specter as she appeared at his shoulder once again. "Uh...I'm sorry, but where's the men's room?"

Gregson directed him, and he made his way there. Luckily, once inside, he was alone, except for Gwen, who'd followed him in. He noted in the back of his mind that while he could see her standing by his side, she cast no reflection in the mirror.

"I know I shouldn't care about how gross this place is," Gwen said, "being dead and all. But...ugh, this is just disgusting. And before you ask, the ladies' room can be just as gnarly sometimes, take it from me."

Peter removed his glasses, bent over the sink, opened the tap, and splashed his face. "That's not gonna get rid of me, you know," Gwen laughed.

"How do you do that?" he asked, looking back up. "How are you haunting me? And is there...is there any reason for this, or do you just really not want to let me go?"

"You're damn right I don't wanna let you go." Gwen reached out and grabbed him by his arms. It amazed him how solid she felt, despite being a ghost. "I dunno if I can call you my 'first love,' per se - God knows I had tons of childhood crushes. But...but you were my first really serious relationship."

"And only," Peter said with a bitter laugh.

"And I don't believe I'm done helping you yet," said Gwen. "I honestly think you suffer without me." She looked down, then shook her head. "I mean...you and I, we're a team."

"I know, I know..." Peter's eyes prickled as tears began to flow. "You know you've always got a special place in my heart. But I need to...I have to let you go sometime." Gwen's lips parted slightly as she frowned, and he added, "Not today, I mean. Just...don't get me wrong, I'm glad you're here. Really. It's like we're finally getting the chance to fully reconcile."

"I wanna think that if you hadn't broken up with me to begin with," Gwen said, laughing tearfully, "I could've advised you better on how to deal with Harry. Maybe help steer him off the path that led to him going Goblin."

"Of course you'd think that," Peter said, "because that's something I've considered over the last few months." He let go of her so he could tap the side of his head. "You're all up in here, and now you're out there-"

"I told you before, didn't I? I'm not a hallucination." Gwen wiped her tears off one cheek, then Peter reached out to do the same with the other. This time, he was touching her, not the other way around, but she still felt as real as ever. "I-I swear to God, Peter," she said, choking up as his knuckles brushed her skin, "I'm a real live ghost. I didn't...I'm not a construct of your brain. I'm independent of your brain."

"What happened to us being a team?" Peter asked. "Two halves of one superhero?"

"Who said that?"

"I'm sure you did at some point."

Gwen chuckled, blinking three times in two seconds. Or, as a more romantically-inclined character than Peter might say, "fluttering her eyelashes." "Maybe I did," Gwen said, "but I don't remember, is all."

"Peter?" Reese came in, but stopped just beyond the threshold upon seeing him. "Oh, there you are. You were in there kind of a long time."

"Was I?" Peter chanced looking over at Gwen, but she was already gone. Of course. "No, I'm all right. Let's, uh, let's get started, okay?"

They headed back to Gregson's bullpen, but before they could rejoin the others, a pay phone in the hallway rang. Reese paused very briefly, then swiveled ninety degrees and picked up the call. "Wait," Peter said. "How can you be sure-"

Reese held up one finger, then mouthed a few words to himself. Then he pulled out his phone and began texting someone, probably Finch or Root. "A new number," he said.

"'New number?'" Peter repeated. "What does that mean?"

"It means you're not the only one in danger anymore," said Reese. "Now we're just waiting to see whose number it is."

"What, phone number?"

Reese shook his head. "No, something a little more official than that. Classified, of course."

"How official?" Peter asked. "Driver's license? SSN?" Reese twitched almost imperceptibly at the last one. Peter thought his enhanced senses were the only reason he could pick up on it. However, he decided to drop the subject rather than press Reese. Instead, he said, "So we should, uh...are we gonna go after this 'new number' as well? Or do you wanna take care of that yourself?"

"It'd probably be best if I took care of it myself," said Reese as he checked his phone. "Or...on second thought, maybe you could come with me."

"Why? Who is it?"

Reese turned the phone to Peter so he could see the screen. Right away, his stomach dropped to the floor.

"I'd say, Peter," Reese whispered, "you're a bit of a danger magnet today."

He gasped, trying to keep himself calm. "How...what the...? Not...they can't possibly have made a connection between me and MJ!"

Gregson raced past Peter and Reese at this point without a word. Bell followed closely behind him, pausing to say, "We've got a lead, guys. We're looking for this assassin guy, the one named after the _Dirty Harry_ movie who tried to take out one of Oscorp's associates. You want in? It's closer to your turf, Riley."

Reese shook his head. "Sorry, but I've got a lead of my own. My CI's given me another name to look into."

Bell shrugged. "Fair enough. Peter, are you gonna be able to get a ride home?"

"No, I'm going with Ree-" He stopped himself just in time before he got out all of Reese's real name. "I'm going with him," he said, jerking his thumb at Reese. "This new person of interest, I know her. I might be able to get them to meet."

"You sure?" Bell cocked his head.

"Detective, let's go!" Sherlock ran by brusquely, accidentally colliding with Peter in the process and not stopping to apologize.

Bell shrugged again. "Sorry about that," he said to Peter. "Sherlock, he's-"

"A bit mannerless?" Peter supplied. "I got that impression already, thanks."

Bell followed Sherlock down the hall, then Watson showed up and asked Reese if he was going to join the hunt for the mysterious Deadpool. When he and Peter filled her in on the "new number" situation with MJ, however, she changed her tune and decided to accompany them instead. Texting Sherlock to let him know where she was going, she followed Reese and Peter out of the building.

"Is MJ still with Shaw?" Peter asked.

Reese had already tried to contact his female counterpart several times, but to no avail. She remained unreachable even as they got back into their car and Reese passed the burn phone to Peter while he concentrated on driving back into Manhattan.

He looked out the window just for a moment before Reese pulled out of the parking space. Then he saw Gwen waving to him from down the row, where she was perched on the trunk of a Crown Vic.

Peter opened the window just in time to hear Gwen yell his way, "Say hi to Deadpool for me!"

He shut the window right away, not wanting to know what that meant - or why Gwen's ghost, of all people, would tell him that.  


	15. Autobahn

" _Wir farh'n, farh'n, farh'n auf der Autobahn...wir farh'n, farh'n, farh'n auf der Autobahn..._ "

As always when he sat in the backseat, Sherlock found himself stuck with an old Kraftwerk tune in his head. A real ear worm, deliberately designed to mimic the boredom of a long drive, especially with its twenty minutes of hypnotic electro-tunes. He'd long suspected that Mycroft had had something to do with it - when they were small, perhaps he'd played the record for him while he slept. And he'd played it enough times that the tune would indelibly be stuck in his head.

No wonder they hated each other so much.

Of course, it wasn't exactly an Autobahn ride from Brooklyn to Manhattan. The Autobahn was known for having no official speed limit. On New York City roads, on the other hand, the speed limit appeared to be set at a mere fifteen miles per hour. Five on the Brooklyn Bridge.

The situation only grew worse when the traffic ground to a halt just short of the bridge proper. "Was there an accident or something?" Bell asked. He checked a traffic app on his phone. "No fatalities, but...something's caused some kind of pileup ahead," he muttered.

Gregson pounded his fist lightly on the steering wheel. "Shit." He reached for the radio.

Sherlock, on the other hand, stepped out of the car. "Where are you going?" Bell asked him.

"I see something ahead," Sherlock said. "It looks like...no, it can't be."

"Say what?"

Sherlock planted his feet firmly on the road, and then he felt it. A faint rumble, growing softer every second. The vibrations came from the direction of the bridge. Could it be...?

"Bell?" he asked. "Do you remember the Lizard?"

"The Lizard...not the one that Spider-Man tried to stop?"

Gregson leaned over and asked, "Dr. Curtis Connors?"

Sherlock pointed down the bridge. "Did the good doctor escape recently, by any chance?"

"Well," Bell said, "he _did_ do that weird pirate broadcast a few minutes ago, trying to champion Spider-Man's innocence or something-"

"Are you saying that's him causing this backup?" Gregson asked.

Sherlock shielded his eyes to get a better glimpse. Then he saw it - a huge green tail rising briefly in the distance. "I'm afraid Connors may not have been completely cured after all. We should call our friends, let them know we're going to be late."

"And that they got another Oscorp mistake on the way," Bell added.

"I'm on it," Gregson said, reaching for the radio once more.  


	16. Gonna Raise The Roof

Over the bridge and into Manhattan, and in the passenger seat, Peter looked around intently for any sign of Deadpool, or this winged new threat that just made mincemeat out of all those officers on live TV. He also waited for Shaw or MJ to call on Reese's burner phone, which he still held in his hands, gripping it tightly like a technological talisman. Which, in some respects, it was.

He heard the phone ring and jumped, feeling a bit of Spidey-sense overload for a split second. But then he realized the annoying, high-pitched polyphonic tones and vibrating circuitry weren't coming from his hands. As Reese reached for a pocket inside his suit jacket, Peter quipped, "It's for you."

"Here," Reese said, handing Peter the second phone - a more visibly high-end model, clearly the one he used for civilian business. (Well, technically, being a cop wasn't "civilian" business, but compared to his _real_ job...) "Answer it."

Peter checked the screen before answering. "Captain Gregson, hi," he said. "What's going on?"

"Where's Detective Riley?" asked Gregson.

"Driving." Peter thumbed the screen. He wasn't terribly used to touch-screen smartphones - he still used a flip phone himself. In 2015. It certainly added to his hipster image, although in his case, it was genuinely the best he could afford. He looked up at Reese, as if to apologize for leaving a huge, greasy thumbprint on his phone, but Reese was too busy looking at the road ahead. "You're on speaker, Captain," he said.

"Riley, you there?" asked Gregson.

"In Manhattan, on the way to collecting our witness," Reese replied. "You have any new developments?"

"Of a sort." Gregson sighed. "You remember the Lizard? Dr. Curtis Connors?"

"How could I forget that night?" Reese asked. "Wait, don't tell me he's-"

"Escaped? 'Fraid so, Detective."

Peter's blood curdled. Just how many enemies of his were going to come after him today? Oscorp was truly pulling out all the stops. And if Connors was out of Ravencroft, who would be next? Harry Osborn himself?

"Where's he going?" asked Watson, who was leaning forward in the backseat, the better to listen in.

"Into Manhattan," Gregson said. "Like you guys."

"We'll, uh, keep an eye out for him," Reese said. Totally nonchalant, like he went hunting for Lizards every day.

Equally casually, Gregson advised them to be careful before hanging up.

"Old friend of yours, Peter?" Watson asked him. "No, no, it's okay," she added in response to the downcast look on his face. "I remember the Lizard's attacks too. Now I think about it...he attacked your school, didn't he?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah, and then he did his thing on Oscorp Tower, when we finally brought him down. But...Captain George Stacy, he didn't make it."

"Stacy?" Watson repeated. "Any relation to your girlfriend?"

"He was Gwen's dad." Peter looked down again, then perked up with a small laugh. "Wait, don't you know all that about me already?"

"Hey, I'm not the one with the dedicated dossiers," Watson said, looking pointedly at Reese through his headrest.

Reese pulled off the street and parked in an alley, next to a roll-up metal garage door. "We're here," he said.

"Wherever 'here' is," Watson muttered. "I don't see that vending machine with the cannabis Gummi Bears."

Both the guys chuckled at this, and Reese said, "You know that's an urban myth, right?"

"Believe me," said Watson, "if it weren't, I'd have heard of tons more kids flooding the pediatric wing after ODing on those things." Reese raised his eyebrows, prompting Watson to answer his unasked question. "I was a surgeon in my previous life. I'm surprised you don't know that already, though."

"The other Watson's life is more of a priority for me and my people to know about now," said Reese. "That was another reason why we had Shaw take her to the gym - so they could talk while working out."

"I see."

"So is this the, uh, gym?" Peter asked, jerking his thumb at the garage door.

"Yeah, it's in there," Reese said. "It's Shaw's favorite place to work out, because she can get in by following the Dark Map." He gestured to the alley around them all. "No cameras."

With a touch of trepidation, Peter followed Reese and Watson through the garage door as someone opened it from inside. On the other side, Shaw worked a switch, raising the door so the trio could pass through. Behind her, next to a huge punching bag, stood MJ in exercise gear - taped-up hands, tight pants with a gray leopard-print pattern, and a black sports bra. Peter couldn't help but check her out, especially her abs. He was pleasantly surprised by how toned she was.

"Hey, Peter," MJ said bashfully, undoing her ponytail and allowing her red hair to cascade over her shoulders. Was she seriously flirting with him? If so, it was working, more than Peter cared to admit. "Shaw's been showing me some serious moves."

"Remind me to have you show me after all this mess is over and done with," said Peter. "You could kick my ass any day of the week."

Shaw snickered behind his back. "I think I'm doing a better job of flirting with her than you are." As Peter blushed furiously, she lowered the door - only for another person, one wearing a skintight red suit, to roll in just before the door closed completely.

 _Holy shit,_ Peter thought. _Gwen wasn't kidding!_

"Perfect fucking timing!" He jumped back to his feet in a sinuous move that even Peter, with his arachnoid locomotion skills, envied.

Reese immediately drew his gun. "Not another step, _Deadpool._ "

"Aww, he knows my name. Happy happy joy joy!" Deadpool clapped his hands to underscore his mock delight. "Love to hang around and get all your digits - especially the three vigilante-types, 'cause you're all super-duper-famous and shit - but I'm going bird hunting. You wanna come with?" He looked around the gym wildly. "Stairs! Which among you knows the way to the roof?"

Shaw blinked. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You don't mean that guy in the wingsuit?" Peter asked.

"Give the boy a cookie!" Deadpool laid his arm over Peter's shoulders, making him jerk away. "Uh-buh-buh, two for flinching!" And so he punched him twice in his left humerus. "Aww, look at him - he's so cute when he's shy!" He leaned over to MJ and stage-whispered, "I should mention he's _always_ shy when he's out of costume. Take advantage of that."

"Peter, do you know this clown?" Watson asked.

"No."

"Oh, but I know _you._ " Peter could swear that one of the opaque white "eye holes" in Deadpool's mask winked at him. So disturbing. "Not in the same way ol' Man In The Suit and his coterie do, not from hacking the bloody shit out of your records. No, I know you 'cause one of the better side effects of the sick, sick experiments that turned me into so much raw man-meat made me completely self-aware enough to learn we're all characters from comic books, movies, TV shows...and this case, a fanfic by a lonely boy in his early twenties who thinks you're his secret twin." He drew a breath, very loudly. "Or, more accurately, that the guy who plays you in the movies is his secret twin. Which makes no sense, given that they're ten years apart in age, but that's neither here nor there, is it?" He turned to Shaw, and while it looked like he was ready and willing to keep his rant going into infinity, he nevertheless changed the subject. "I know you know where to find the stairs," he said. "Seriously, I need to find the goddamn Birdman...and can we change the goddamn name? We're not honoring that stupid pretentious fucking windbag movie here!"

Shaw shrugged. "I suppose it can't hurt." She opened another door at the far end of the room, revealing a stairwell with bright red walls illuminated by stark fluorescent lights.

"Once again," Deadpool said before going through the door, "feel free to come with." He turned around and tromped up the stairs, loud footfalls receding up and away.

Peter was the first to try and follow him. Reese held him back for a moment, asking, "You sure about this?"

"He knows things," Peter said. "Things even you and...Finch, was it? Things you guys couldn't possibly know. I'm gonna get answers from him, one way or another." He pulled away from Reese's grip and ran up the steps as well. Fifteen flights, enough to leave him just a tad bit out of breath. He needed to work more on his cardio, especially after five months of inactivity as Spider-Man.

On the roof, he spotted Deadpool standing on the edge, staring down at the ground far below. "Hey!" he cried as he approached him. "What else do you know about me, huh?"

"Only what I know 'cause that Ricky dude writes your stories out of order," Deadpool said. "Let me just tell you this much - that girl next door? She's cute and sweet and looking for action, but you're gonna get your old girl back for real. And sooner than you think. Honestly, I'm jealous - I'm still looking for my lady love myself." He held two fingers to his temple and saluted Peter. "Now if you'll excuse me..." He turned back to the edge, spread his arms for a second, then said, "Maximum...effort!"

Finally, he jumped.

Peter ran to the edge and immediately made to fire his webline and save Deadpool...but then it became clear no saving would be necessary.

Because while Deadpool fell, the bald man in the wingsuit rose from the ground.  


End file.
